by T. Frohock
The music poured straight into her soul. The Thrones. They examined her, probed her aura with the vibrations of their strange voices . . . and she saw the firmaments spread before her in a brilliant display of color and sound . . . a river of fire . . . boundless space flowing into . . . time without end . . . infinity rising, engulfing her existence . . . and I am nothing but a speck of dust in this wide expanse . . .
Terrified by the visions bursting through her brain, she realized she’d made a mistake. A horrible mistake. She tried to remove the ring but found she couldn’t. The signet had become one with her flesh.
Then why was I able to take it from Jordi so easily? She twisted it again, but short of cutting off her finger, she couldn’t remove the ring. And then she realized the answer to her own question.
She was able to take the ring from Jordi because he wasn’t a true king of the Inner Guard. The remnants of the Grigori’s song. She’d seen it wrapped around her uncle’s heart. The Thrones had searched Jordi’s song and found him corrupt.
Jordi might have worn the signet, but he would never command the angels’ fire in this incarnation. Like Miquel’s wedding band, Jaeger’s ring was nothing but a trophy.
As if this revelation was what the Thrones needed to hear, their voices diminished to murmurs. On her finger, the tear embedded in the signet’s setting flared to life.
A sudden rush of power surged up through her arms and into her brain. The welts on her arms healed. Her feet settled back to the floor.
This is the feeling Jordi strives to re-create through the drugs. But no narcotic could ever come close to replicating the sensation she experienced. As the room gradually swam back into focus, she now understood why her uncle so desperately craved the signet.
Her wall of fire flickered and died. In the shadows, she made out the figure of Beleth. The daimon king had crawled into the opposite corner, shielding his multiple eyes from the rays of light snapping around Ysa’s body.
And somehow the daimon-born discovered Jordi’s weakness. That explained Beleth’s dangerous gamble to possess an angel-born nefil. He’d known Jordi wouldn’t be able to defend himself from a daimonic attack. But he hadn’t counted on us being here, too.
The sounds within the mortal realm flowed back around her. The crackle of dying glyphs rushed along the baseboards. The pounding on the door had taken the rhythmic measure of an ax’s blows. The chant of several nefilim seeped through splinters as they tried to break into the conference room.
Ysa listened for members of Los Nefilim, but instead she heard Stultz, Esser, and Heines . . . and others, so many others . . . but none were the voices most dear to her heart.
Jordi had abandoned his attempt to accost her. Shifting his course, he crawled toward the pistol.
A hand landed on her shoulder. She whirled. Her father stood beside her. The bruise on the side of his face pulsed in spectacular shades of black and blue and yellow. He’d smeared a line of blood beneath his nose to his cheek.
Yet in spite of his injuries, his voice thundered through the room. “. . . with me! I need you with me, Ysa!”
She blinked at him. “Here! I’m here!”
Beleth likewise came to himself. With no obstacles between him and his prey, he shot another tentacle at Jordi’s ankle.
Jordi stretched his arm. His fingertips brushed the pistol’s grip. Then the daimon’s organ wrapped around his shin, yanking him backward and away from the gun.
Jordi shrieked and grabbed the table’s leg, holding on while the daimon’s acid ate down to the bone.
Ysabel started when her father grabbed her wrist. His hoarse whisper was barely audible beneath Jordi’s howls. “The strongest nefil leads the attack. I’ll distract Beleth. You create the banishing sigil. Send him back to the daimonic realm.”
And then he was gone, moving quickly to get between Jordi and Beleth.
The banishing sigil . . . Jordi had wanted Beleth dead. Guillermo rarely killed unless it was a necessary act.
Facing Beleth, she swallowed hard and focused her mind. I can do this. Her father had schooled her until she could form the glyphs in her sleep. She sang a note and the fire that accompanied her song blazed in the dim room.
As she drew her finger through the vibrations, she noticed other colors moving through the threads of her song. It’s the auras of the members of Die Nephilim.
Because they chanted in the nearby hallway, their voices flowed into the Thrones’ tear and became entwined with hers. It was as if she’d become an amplifier for their magic. The icy blue threads of Heines’s aura blended with Esser’s deeper azure and augmented Stultz’s cerulean tones. Ysa melded them into one band of clear cobalt light and interspersed the notes throughout her banishing sigil.
She drew the lines together, concentrating on her task.
From the corner of her eye, she saw her father shape a spear of light from the dying bulbs overhead. He hefted the shaft and used it to sever the tentacle wrapped around Jordi’s ankle.
Jordi drew his injured leg away from the daimon’s organ. His foot hung at a strange angle. All that held it to his leg were white bits of bone and the few remaining tendons. Her uncle sobbed from the pain.
She shut the sound out of her mind.
Beleth sent a blast of frigid air at Guillermo, knocking him backward again. But it was a glancing blow. This time, her father rolled to his feet and twirled the spear, throwing it at Beleth’s head.
The daimon ducked and the spear shattered the window behind him, forcing the shutters open. Daylight flooded the room as Ysa finished the last line of her sigil.
“To my song!” she cried loud enough for the nefilim in the hall to hear. The stone on her signet flared with blinding light.
From across the room, her father joined her. The beams within his signet reached out to hers.
They channeled their light into the glyph. The ward burst across the room and engulfed Beleth. The daimon roared. Its tentacles formed a glyph of its own. Beleth brought the full weight of its force against them.
The blow sent her reeling, but she quickly caught her balance and began again. Beleth fought his bonds as Ysa and Guillermo created the next ward together. This time, Guillermo sent the glyph forward with his baritone.
The sigil struck the daimon. Beleth’s body disappeared and then reappeared. Bands of light rippled across its flesh.
It looks like a bulb shorting out. But the daimon wasn’t gone. Not yet.
Ysa created a third sigil, and this time her father allowed her to lead. Shoving the glyph with all her might, she channeled every ounce of her newfound power into the ward. The glyph struck Beleth and the daimon finally disappeared.
The silence was so sudden, Ysabel thought she’d gone deaf. She looked down. The stone in her signet glowed softly.
“Well.” A shaky smile touched her father’s mouth as he retrieved Jordi’s pistol. “You got the hang of it.”
She made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
The door burst open and Heines stumbled in. He surveyed the damage and then his eye fell on Ysa. “What the hell?”
She wasn’t sure if he wanted her to explain Jordi’s condition, or the destruction of the room and its furniture, or the daimonic body parts littering the floor, or the ring on her finger.
Her father went to Jordi’s side, shielding his body from the curious nefilim crowding behind Heines.
Jordi twisted and tried to see around Guillermo. “Heines! They attacked me! Arrest them!”
Heines didn’t acknowledge Jordi’s cries. His gaze swept to Ysa’s hand, where the Thrones’ tear still pulsed, and then up to her face.
Ysa moved toward her uncle and father. “Herr Abelló is injured. We need a stretcher.”
Heines didn’t immediately move.
“Now, please.”
He turned and passed the order along to someone behind him, but he didn’t leave.
And maybe having a witness is a good idea. She went to Jordi’s
side.
The hate in her uncle’s eyes prevented her from reaching out to him. “You little bitch. This was your plan all along. Wasn’t it?”
“No,” she said with pity.
Her father knelt beside his brother. “Could you give us a minute, Ysa? Don’t leave . . . just . . .” He nodded toward Heines, and she got the message loud and clear. Joining Heines at the door, she shooed the other onlookers away. “Everything is under control. Go back to your posts.”
She almost didn’t recognize Violeta, because of the Nazi uniform she wore. Her friend pushed to the front and glanced at the signet on her hand. “Ysa?”
Ysa took Violeta’s hand and squeezed her fingers, all the while avoiding the betrayal in her friend’s eyes. I didn’t want to be queen . . . not like this. But it was all too much to explain, and other members of Die Nephilim clustered together, whispering among themselves while giving Ysa furtive glances.
“My Musketeer,” Ysa murmured. “Please trust me. I’ll explain later.” Then, without waiting for an answer, she returned to the conference room.
Heines remained at the door while Ysa edged deeper into the room. Positioning herself so she could see both her father and her uncle, she waited by the wall.
Guillermo held his brother. “You don’t have to die alone this time, Jordi. I’ll stay with you.”
“What are you talking about?” He indicated his injured foot. “The surgeons can fix me. I’m not dying.”
“Then you’ll go on trial. The Inner Guard will convict you of Jaeger’s murder, and when they do, they’ll see the remains of the Grigori’s song in your aura. You know our laws as well as I do. At that point, the judges will recommend the second death. You are my brother. I can forgive you, because I understand what you’re going through. They will not.”
From where she stood, Ysa watched Jordi’s face as the truth of her father’s words penetrated his rage and the twin fogs of pain and the withdrawal. He swallowed hard and stared at the ceiling. For several minutes, he said nothing. Guillermo gave him all the time he needed.
Jordi shifted his weight. “So. You win.” His tongue moved in his mouth. “This time.” He bit down.
Ysa heard something crunch between his teeth. His body spasmed. She hurried forward and tried to pry Jordi’s teeth apart, but the bitter smell of almonds wafted from between his lips. A seizure rattled his body, and then his breathing stopped.
“Cyanide,” she murmured.
Guillermo didn’t answer. He gently rocked his brother as he died.
30
24 January 1944
The Theater of Dreams
Rafael awoke on a bed. His arm had fallen asleep; the nerves sent a painful buzzing sensation into his hand. In an attempt to stretch, he found he could barely move.
What the hell? His hands were cuffed behind his back, and his ankles were lashed together. He groaned, his voice muffled behind a gag.
In gradual stages, the night’s events came back to him: he’d sabotaged ward after ward of dark sounds until he reached the theater’s basement door. That was where he’d been caught. The last thing he remembered was seeing Alvaro’s face.
The memory was like waking from a nightmare. His heart suddenly punched his chest, his limbs were paralyzed with fear.
Easy, easy, no one is hurting me now. Figure out what is going on. His adrenaline slowed and he took stock of his physical condition. He was exhausted. Whatever spell Alvaro had used left him unrested and on edge. His head ached, and he felt a bruise on the side of his face, but that could have happened when Alvaro’s ward hit him.
Calming, he turned his head to the right and found himself staring at a nondescript wall. A cheap nightstand was beside the bed.
It’s the hotel. Alvaro must have brought him here.
Fine.
Not that it was. He wondered how long he’d been out.
Long enough for someone to search him. His gun was gone, but he realized no one had taken his signet ring, or the jewelry box from his breast pocket. He didn’t question why the daimon-born avoided touching the signet. The angel’s tear would be worthless to most of them, painful to others.
Likewise, they probably deemed the etching as worthless, and that was okay. Having his mother’s image close to his heart gave him a bit more courage.
He wondered if his father was somewhere nearby. Monique said they hadn’t seen Diago leave the hotel, but that was last night. Surely if he knew I was here, he’d come. Or has something happened to him, too? Rafael didn’t want to think that thought. He’s okay. He’s got to be okay.
Twisting on the naked mattress, he saw he wasn’t alone. A skeleton sat on a chair beside the door.
Don’t be an idiot. He closed his eyes and opened them again.
The man wore a striped uniform with a pink triangular badge on the chest. Like Miquel, Rafael knew the colored badges and what they represented. He’s a camp inmate. Homosexual. Is that where they’re taking me? To a camp?
He heard Miquel’s voice inside his head: Keep your eye on the task—mortal or nefil?
The man was nefil and angel-born. It was his eyes that finally gave away his identity. Nico.
Stunned to see the other nefil here, Rafael grunted to let Nico know he was awake. Come on, Nico, find the key to these cuffs.
Then Rafael saw the pistol in the other nefil’s hand. My gun. He couldn’t tell if the magazine was the same, but he saw no reason why they would have checked the rounds. If they hadn’t, then the silver-tipped bullets would still be loaded.
And I’m not immune to the pain those rounds can produce. Rafael lifted his wrists, hoping Nico would get the implication. Unlock the cuffs.
The Italian bit his lower lip and shook his head. Unbuttoning his shirt, he showed Rafael the scorpion buried beneath his skin. A tear slid down his cheek.
Oh, Nico, no. Rafael nodded to signify he understood. If he’s been told to guard me, then that is what he must do.
Someone walked down the hall, the shadow of their footsteps darkening the threshold of Rafael’s room before moving on. Silence descended over the floor again. A few more minutes passed.
Rafael looked for a clock, anything to tell him what time of day it was. He wondered if Miquel had been successful in persuading Heines to join Los Nefilim’s move against the daimon-born. They could be on their way right now. He wanted so desperately to hope they would stage an eleventh-hour rescue.
Nico shifted his position on the chair. Three seconds later, he rocked his torso gently, tapping one foot against the floor.
Rafael was trying to figure out how to ask him what was wrong when Nico grimaced. A sheen of sweat burst across his forehead. He bent forward; his mouth opened in a perfect O. The blood drained from his face.
Nico? Rafael chewed the rag and wished he could spit it out. He wanted to tell his comrade to follow the daimon-born’s command. Helpless, he could only watch in horror as the other nefil dry-heaved for almost a full minute.
With one hand against his throat, Nico placed the pistol on the floor. Rafael shook his head, hoping Nico would see and understand. Please don’t die for me . . . not like this.
A dribble of black blood oozed from the corner of Nico’s mouth. He wiped it with the back of his hand. “What is happening—”
The question ended abruptly. He coughed and immediately cupped his hand under his chin. Rushing into the small bathroom, he spat a mouthful of blood into the toilet. His entire body spasmed and he went to his knees.
Rafael tasted the other nefil’s terror and pain, a rancid flavor that coated his tongue. Unlike his father, Rafael’s angelic qualities were stronger. Though he was aware of Nico’s overpowering emotions, he easily brushed aside any desire to feed on his pain. Craning his neck, he simply wished he could offer the other nefil some word of comfort.
In the lavatory, a convulsion rippled through Nico’s body. Black blood poured from his mouth and nose.
Nico couldn’t possibly lose that much blood and st
ill be breathing. What, then?
The nefil raised his head just enough for Rafael to glimpse the shadow of a sigil in the dark mass pouring from his mouth. It’s not blood, but a song! The scorpion . . . it’s dying!
Another minute passed and the gray shadow of a scorpion finally slithered through Nico’s lips. The dead arachnid fell into the porcelain bowl. Nico wiped his mouth with one shaking hand and immediately pulled the chain to flush the toilet.
For a long time, he knelt, his head resting on the seat. Had it not been for the rise and fall of his chest, Rafael would have thought him dead. Unable to take the silence any longer, Rafael made a questioning sound in the back of his throat.
Nico lifted his head. “I’m okay,” he croaked. “I think.”
He used the sink to pull himself up. Then he unbuttoned his shirt and touched his chest, staring at his image. “It’s gone,” he whispered.
Rafael made another questioning sound.
Nico seemed to come back to himself. He hurried to Rafael’s side and loosened the gag. “What is this?” He pointed to his chest. “What does it mean?”
“The daimon-born nefil that sang the spell is dead. You’re free.”
Nico stared at him in obvious shock, as if he dared not believe. “But Strzyga wasn’t just a nefil. He was possessed by an actual daimon.”
“Who?”
“Alessandro Strzyga. I didn’t find out his true name—”
“No, which daim—”
But Nico talked right over Rafael’s interruption. “—until after we arrived in Paris. You probably know him as Herr Teufel. He was like Moloch and Alvaro. Strzyga was possessed by the daimon Beleth.”
Beleth? The daimon of war? “I doubt anyone killed Beleth, but his host, Strzyga, is definitely dead. Where are they?”
“Strzyga and your father went to l’Entreprenante. When they left, Alvaro had the others bring me here to guard you.”
Damn it. He’d hoped his papá was somewhere close. At least now he knew not to expect a last-minute rescue. “Strzyga willingly went to face a king of the Inner Guard?”