In Midnight's Silence

by T. Frohock

  His heart picked up speed as he finally looked to the child.

  My son, he corrected himself in wonder. This isn’t just any child. He is my son. No amount of abstract reasoning had prepared Diago for the emotions that assaulted him as he examined the boy. It was one thing to realize he had a child. It was something entirely different to see that child in the flesh for the first time.

  A flat cap pushed the boy’s thick bangs into his eyes. His hair was as blue-­black as Diago’s, but the waves that curled the ends belonged to Candela. The child’s magic was as wild as his hair, and tangled around his small body in hues of amber and jade. Another Nefil would easily recognize him as Nefil. To mortals, in spite of the filth, he was simply a beautiful child.

  A forest-­green jacket threaded with yellow hung on his thin body; the sleeves were rolled back to his wrists. He clutched a worn rag-­horse with button eyes. The toy had obviously been salvaged from someone’s trash. His scabby knees showed more bone than flesh. One sock was rumpled around his ankle, the other clung to his calf, ready to let go its precarious hold and join its mate. The boy was filthy, as if he’d been living on the streets. For all Diago knew, he had been. He had no idea who, if anyone, had cared for him since Candela’s death.

  Why didn’t she tell me? Did she think me so evil that I’d desert him? He might not have wanted a child, but he certainly wouldn’t have run from the responsibility. Not like his father had.

  The boy chose a tray and scooped up the marbles. He counted them out and frowned at the board, tapping his fingers against the table in a slow rhythm, like a cat twitching its tail. The familiarity of the motion stunned Diago. He often did the same thing when distracted.

  He is mine. And on the heels of that thought came the obvious: I have to get him out of here. He glanced at Miquel again. I have to get both of them out of here.

  “Come in, Diago,” said the angel. “We have been waiting for you.”

  Miquel stopped playing and looked up. His dark bangs fell over his forehead, but not before Diago saw the pain that cut crystal tears into his eyes. The last note hung blue and lonely in the air.

  Advancing slowly, Diago surveyed the room one last time. When he was sure they were the only occupants, he holstered the gun—­the weapon was useless here. Halfway to the table, he hesitated, torn between going to Miquel and snatching his son away from the angel.

  He gauged the distance between him and Miquel, who was less than a metre away. Miquel gave a single shake of his head, discouraging Diago from coming closer.

  The last grain of sand fell through the hourglass. The door slammed shut. Diago whirled, reaching for his gun again. He expected to see the two men Doña Rosa had mentioned, but the short hall was empty. His fingers slid from the gun’s grip as he turned back to the angel. “Who are you?”

  “Beltran Prieto.” The angel tipped his head and spread his hands. “At your ser­vice.”

  “That’s not your name.”

  “It’s the only name you’ll have from my lips.” He leaned back in his chair and looked toward the door. “Expecting someone?”

  “Two men delivered your gift. Where are they?”

  “Ah,” Prieto murmured. The marbles clicked together as he placed each one in a pit. He won himself a second turn. “There were no men. Doña Rosa lied to you. Oh, don’t look so shocked. José is in a great deal of debt to some rather unscrupulous characters. She was praying for his immortal soul, and I went to her. I promised to remove José’s desire to gamble if Doña Rosa told a little white lie and delivered a gift for me.”

  The boy offered helpfully, “He appeared to Doña Rosa in church and made her believe she had a vision from God.” When Diago shifted his attention to the child, the boy’s cheeks reddened. “He let me watch,” he whispered, his fledgling confidence disappearing beneath Diago’s gaze.

  “I see.” Diago nodded in what he hoped was a reassuring manner, as he edged closer to his son.

  A tremulous smile returned to the boy’s mouth.

  He wants to be loved so badly. Diago saw the need in his son’s eyes and something tore inside his chest. If I can just get to him. He managed to take one more step closer before Miquel warned him with another shake of his head. Diago halted in his tracks.

  “A lesson to him.” Prieto pretended to ignore them and considered his next move. “He needs to understand the power of a true angel, one who is not sullied by mortal flesh.” He chose stones from his side of the board. “A lesson Miquel should heed since he refused to arrange a meeting between you and me.” Prieto spared Miquel a quick glare. “He wanted to check with Guillermo first. In the old days, a Nefil would have obeyed me without question, then informed Guillermo. Los Nefilim are becoming arrogant, it seems. What do you know about that, Diago?”

  “Nothing. I stay out of their business.”

  “Hmm. No pillow talk. That’s a shame.” Prieto dropped the marbles into their respective pits. “It’s a good thing most mortals still respect us. Those that don’t can be bought. I had to pay José for his help, but the expense was worth it. He proved quite clever for a mortal. He waited until his mother left to visit a friend. Then he just announced a phone call from you, and of course, Miquel, knowing how you hate the phone, assumed it was an emergency. José took him down quite skillfully. One punch to the face. Miquel never saw it coming.”

  The gouge in the wall by the phone. . .

  Miquel looked away, but not before Diago saw his shame. He had been caught off guard by a mortal. The error might have been forgivable in a younger Nefil, but for Miquel, the lapse in judgment was inexcusable.

  Prieto said, “He should have done as I asked.” He gestured at Miquel, who took a sharp short breath.

  A flash of silver light coursed beneath his skin and through his veins. A sigil spun just over his heart. It was an ugly creation made of jagged lines and serrated edges, like a circular saw blade. Diago recognized it immediately. It was a binding sigil. He knew from experience the agony of such a glyph. Disobedience caused the ward to clench a Nefil’s heart, and send electric shocks through the limbs.

  Diago took three steps toward Miquel before Prieto’s voice stopped him.

  “Leave him, Diago. I can make it worse.” Prieto clenched his fist. The sigil burned brighter. Miquel cried out.

  “All right!” He halted and snapped the words like bullets. “Stop hurting him!”

  Prieto opened his hand. He’d made his point. The sigil disappeared.

  Diago’s apprehension receded marginally as Miquel took a deep breath. And what about my son? He backed up and examined the boy. No silver streaked his veins, nor had Prieto bound him with a sigil. The boy clenched the toy pony’s mane and regarded Diago with naked curiosity.

  Prieto missed nothing. His tone turned parental as he coaxed the youngster. “Greet your father, Rafael.”

  Rafael. The name went through Diago like a shock. Suddenly, he smelled the hard scent of tin—­and carnations, she kept carnations by the bed—­and recalled Candela lazily tracing the scars on his chest. The golden snake had slid from her hair to coil over his heart, cool like water, soft like silk. The serpent had watched him with ruby eyes, but Diago had barely been aware of anything other than Candela’s voice, murmuring the name she would call her song.

  “Rafael,” he said, echoing his memory.

  Rafael parted his lips as if he meant to speak. Whatever question poised on his tongue was drowned by the dissonant note of the guitar when it hit the floor.

  Miquel stood and shoved the instrument aside with his foot. “Your what?”

  Prieto’s eerie gaze sparkled with delight. “You never told him?”

  Diago’s mouth went dry. He willed his brain to think. Fear swallowed his thoughts and gave him nothing in return. I will lose him over this.

  “Told me what?” Miquel’s tone grew fierce as he circled the tabl
e, moving toward Diago.

  Prieto grinned and did nothing to stop Miquel’s advance. “That he took a lover. In Triana. What did she call herself there, Diago?”

  “Candela,” Diago whispered.

  Miquel’s voice lowered a notch. “Candela?”

  Diago licked his lips. “I knew her in Triana.”

  “I heard that part.” Miquel pretended to ignore Prieto’s chuckles, but Diago saw each laugh cut Miquel to the heart. He was a proud one, his Miquel. “How could you?”

  “She claimed to have a song that would help us.”

  “And did she?” Miquel stopped right in front of Diago, his dark eyes ablaze with his fury and pain. “Did she give you your song?”

  They were almost nose to nose, but Diago didn’t back away from him. I brought him this pain and, though it will kill me, if he wants to go, I will not stop him. “She said it would come to me.”

  “And so it did.” Prieto snatched the carmine marble from his tray. He held it between finger and thumb, pretending to examine Rafael through the glass. “Forgive him, Miquel. She was an angel. He couldn’t have resisted her if he’d wanted to. She enchanted him. Only the angel-­born Nefilim can know the pure of heart, and Diago’s daimon nature clouds his eyes. That is his weakness. Our Candela deceived the deceiver.”

  Diago locked his knees so he didn’t fall. The dance had shifted beneath his feet. Candela was angel? But that couldn’t be. Surely he would have recognized her as such . . . or would he? How had she fooled him so thoroughly?

  By telling me what I wanted to hear. She had beguiled him with his own wishes and he had followed her like a lamb.

  The feathery brush of fingers against his palm caused Diago to start. He looked down to find Rafael peering up at him.

  “Is that true?” he asked. “Are you my papa?”

  Diago brushed a curl from the child’s eyelashes. The hope in Rafael’s eyes tore Diago’s heart. He knew what it was to be abandoned and alone. And on the heels of that thought came another: what about his own father, the man he’d hated for so long? Had he even known about Diago? Or had he been clueless about his son’s birth, the same as Diago hadn’t known about Rafael? Diago tucked those questions away. He would examine them later in the light, but not now. In this moment, he needed to acknowledge his own son. “It’s true. You’re mine.”

  Rafael twined his fingers with Diago’s. “May I live with you?”

  Diago touched Miquel’s wrist in order to get his attention. Miquel didn’t pull away, but he didn’t acknowledge Diago’s touch either.

  Diago wished for the privacy Prieto wouldn’t give them. He lowered his voice. “I won’t leave him like my father left me. If you don’t want to stay—­” I will sorrow for ten thousand years. Diago swallowed hard. “I’ll understand.”

  Miquel made no sign he heard. He glared at Prieto, his fists working at his sides. Afraid that he might forget himself and attack the angel, Diago eased in front of him, although it meant putting his back to Prieto. He waited until Miquel met his gaze before he mouthed: Please. I need you.

  Rafael wiped the corner of his eye with the sleeve of his coat. “I don’t want to go back to Sister Benita.”

  “You won’t,” Miquel snapped.

  Diago released the breath he’d been unaware of holding. He clutched Rafael’s hand and maneuvered the child between them.

  “That’s so sweet.” Prieto rolled the red marble beneath his palm in small circular motions. “But you won’t get to keep him, Diago. He’s ours. Candela hid him from us. We were looking in Sevilla, but here he was in Barcelona, tucked behind the black skirts of the nuns. Such a waste.” He ran his tongue over his upper lip. “Sister Benita was more than happy to turn him over to me. She thinks he is the devil’s son. I made sure she knew he was merely a daimon.” Prieto chucked at his own joke.

  “You think this is funny?” Miquel turned his rage on Prieto. “If what you’re saying is true, Candela took her mortal form and raped him.”

  Diago felt like he’d been punched. “What?” He instinctively put his hand over Rafael’s ear. The child didn’t need to hear this. Diago wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it. How had a tryst turned into rape?

  The soul of reason, Miquel asked, “Would you have done it if she had not enchanted you?”

  “Of course not.” Or was that true? Diago wasn’t sure of anything anymore. At the time, he had thought himself perfectly in control of the situation with Candela, but that could have easily been part of her spell. And even if he wouldn’t have had sex with her without an enchantment, what were the ramifications of such an admission in front of Rafael? The child was only six; how much did he understand? Diago pointedly looked down at the boy, and when he met Miquel’s gaze again, he saw most of the anger had bled from Miquel’s face and was replaced by ruthless cunning.

  Damn him. Miquel had provoked that response on purpose. “Why did you do that?”

  “I had to know the truth.”

  “Am I such a liar that you have to test me?”

  Miquel didn’t answer. Diago knuckled down on the hard knot of hurt that settled in his gut, because he knew the answer. This was a conversation they would have in private. Later.

  If there was a later.

  Diago noticed that Prieto seemed to be enjoying the exchange and was in no hurry to move them along. What was he waiting for? He allowed them to be distracted with a quarrel—­for what? To test their allegiance to one another? Diago looked back to the table for some clue. While he and Miquel had been engaged in their argument, Prieto had flipped the hourglass again. The time. Prieto was in no hurry, because he awaited the proper hour. But to do what?

  So Diago asked. “What do you want, Prieto? You didn’t stage this little drama for your own amusement. You need something from me, or we wouldn’t be here.”

  Prieto’s eyes swirled with malice. “What do I want? Only that which you alone can give, Diago. I want your firstborn son.”

  “What?”

  Miquel took a step toward the table. “This is sadistic.”

  “No,” Prieto said. “I am many things, but I am not a sadist. This task gives me no pleasure whatsoever. The daimons are using their Nefilim to incite the mortals into a second world war. The daimons don’t care who wins, they simply want to feed on more mortal hate. We cannot stop the humans from savaging one another again, but we can mitigate the damage and bring the war to a stop within a reasonable period. My orders are to bring back the weapon that will end the conflict at the right time.”

  “What is a reasonable amount of time?” Miquel asked as he sidled between Diago and Prieto.

  Prieto took up the red marble. “Four, maybe five mortal years. Less than a minute to the angels. An hour to Los Nefilim.” He rolled the marble across his fingers in a balancing game.

  Rafael peeked at Prieto. “That is mine,” he said, indicating the marble.

  Diago rested his hand on the boy’s head in order to acknowledge his words, but he didn’t answer him. He directed his question to Prieto. “What do you need me to do?”

  “It’s very simple, Diago. Moloch has a coin, a very special coin, one that we require.”

  “Moloch.” Diago murmured the name through numb lips. Guillermo had faced the daimon Moloch on the battlefield once and still carried the scars of that fight. A daimon of war, Moloch’s renown for engineering new ways for mortals to murder one another reached greater pinnacles with each technological advancement. “Moloch doesn’t hoard money.”

  “Moloch hoards death.” Prieto tossed the marble into the air and caught it while fixing his horrific eyes on Rafael. “The coin you’re going to bring me represents an idea, a concept, one that we need to implant in a mortal’s mind so that he might develop the weapon.”

  “This idea is about murder,” Diago said.

  “But not as an act of evil,” said the
angel.

  “Not if you do it,” Diago retorted.

  “I detect sarcasm, Diago.” Prieto touched his chest where his heart might have been if he was human. “I’m hurt.”

  Diago scoffed. “And what is the price for this coin? This idea? What does it have to do with Rafael?”

  “Moloch is hungry.”

  Diago’s stomach lurched in a slow somersault. Now it all fell together. In the days of Solomon, the ­people had sacrificed their children to Moloch in order to buy peace. Diago’s fingers unconsciously tightened on Rafael’s shoulder. “No.”

  “He demands a sacrifice,” said Prieto. “He wants the child of a Nefil.”

  Diago shook his head. “I have done terrible things, but not this. This I will not do.”

  Prieto pursed his lips and dropped the marble into the tray. “We have exhausted every option in our negotiations. This world war can last for four years or four decades. You remember the Inquisition, Diago. How long do you want them to suffer? For every year the mortal war drags on, the daimons feed on misery, and that simply whets their appetite for more. The daimons’ power will grow. We must give Moloch what he wants.”

  “No. You have to give him what he wants. I don’t owe Moloch a God damn thing.”

  “The parent must give the child. No one else has the right. Those have always been Moloch’s terms. He is as intractable as he is ancient. It’s a small sacrifice. One life for the good of the many. You are the one who is always crying for peace, Diago. Are you willing to pay the price?”

  Diago barked an incredulous laugh at the audacity of the question. “No. I refuse.”

  Prieto’s humor vanished. He utilized all three sets of his vocal chords. “I won’t be disobeyed.”

  The sound plummeted through Diago and into his bones. Rafael clamped his hands over his ears. The stuffed horse flopped in the crook of his arm. Miquel flinched from the sound. He placed his hand over Diago’s and linked their fingers together, giving Diago a gentle squeeze. It was a conciliatory gesture, an old signal between them, one that asked for forgiveness for his earlier harsh words.