by T. Frohock
Guillermo retrieved a scrap of paper and jotted them down. “It’s a portal to a pocket realm.”
Unlike an angelic realm, which created pathways to completely separate dimensions, pockets remained just under the veneer of the mortal realm, like a body beneath a blanket. They were often used by nefilim as bunkers or covert black sites. And they’re damned hard to maintain.
“Look at the shape of these lines.” Guillermo ran his finger close to the glowing orange threads without touching them. “See the image of a labyrinth beneath infinity? The light orange vibrations overlaid with gold?”
Only one nefil’s song carried those hues. “Jordi.”
“Oh, my brother, my clever brother is operating a black site in the Pyrenees.” A hint of admiration touched the pronouncement. “Right under our fucking noses.”
“That explains why Sitz and his squad herded us in this direction.” Diago pointed to three broken circles within the design. “But it’s not meant to be a permanent gateway.”
“Which is why Feran didn’t wait to ambush us back at the cave after he killed Carme. He didn’t want to be caught on the wrong side.”
Diago noted the bitterness in his friend’s voice. Feeding his rage won’t get us anywhere. He gestured to the glyph. “Where do you think it goes?”
“Straight up the devil’s asshole.”
And from there right into Jordi’s lap. Diago gripped his pistol tighter. “That decides us, then.”
“What do you mean?”
“You can’t go in there. Too risky. I have to go and get the notebook.” Alone. Behind enemy lines. It wasn’t the first time he’d taken such a chance, but in those cases he’d always known exactly what kind of situation awaited him. There were plans and contingency plans.
This time, however . . .
We know nothing about what’s on the other side of that glyph.
But that didn’t matter—it had to be done. “Wait for me back in the cave. If I don’t return in a few hours, then head to France, and take care of my boy.”
Guillermo hissed for quiet as he studied the glyph. “Look at this.” He pointed to another set of lines throbbing in time with the nefilim’s song. Greenish-brown hues clung like tar to the brighter orange. “Have you ever seen anything like that before?”
Diago edged closer. “No. There’s too much light for it to be the threads of a daimonic ward.” Nor was it angelic—at least, not like any angelic sigil Diago had ever seen.
The ugly lines on the glyph swelled like pus behind a wound.
Guillermo’s frown deepened. “I’m not sending you in there alone.”
“Don’t be foolish—”
Guillermo cut off the protest with a gesture. “We’ve taken down rogue angels together.” He turned his fiery gaze on Diago and emphasized the last. “Together. Besides, it’s like Miquel always says, ‘We’ve made it through worse than this.’”
“He only says that when he’s scared shitless and doesn’t want anyone to know it.” I wish he were here with us. I doubt I’d be half as afraid if he was. But he held that thought close to his heart, like the memory of his husband’s touch.
Guillermo shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. We’ve got a better chance of beating this thing together.”
The ward pulsed ominously, fading almost dark before it surged to life again.
Guillermo touched Diago’s arm. “We’re going through. On the next flash. You go left, I’ll go right. Stay low until we know what we’re dealing with. If you see anything move, open fire.” He chambered a round in his pistol. “We’ll ask questions when the smoke clears.”
Diago gave a terse nod.
The nefilim’s chant intensified. The haunted chorus struggled to carry each note.
But at what price? They cannot sing like this for long. No one could. The thought gave him a chill.
A long moan vibrated around them, rising in timbre. The sound came from everywhere . . . from nowhere . . . it undulated, touching their flesh and shaping the stone with waves of sound. The glyph brightened again, signaling the pathway between realms had opened.
“Now,” Guillermo hissed.
They stepped into the ward simultaneously. Reverberations of the nefilim’s song reached a fever pitch.
The curvature of space and time warped the flowstone around them. Colors merged and bled hot, streaking past them as if the world had turned fluid in a sickening flood of shades, where brown turned to black and red to gray.
The velocity of their forward motion increased. The trajectory flattened Diago’s flesh against muscle and bone. After one final surge of the chant, the world solidified around them.
5
Diago’s boot hit metal. Blinking hard to clear his vision, he immediately turned left and dropped to one knee. His improvised kneepads absorbed the shock from the latticework floor of a catwalk.
The conflagration of light slowly receded. Industrial odors of oil and steel replaced the mineral scents of water and stone. They were on a catwalk high above two rows of train tracks, which were separated by a strip of concrete.
Freight cars sat on one side of the island, empty metro cars on the other. The metro cars’ distinctive red and green paint, for first- and second-class passengers, respectively, indicated they were French. Both the freight and metro cars were nestled in a line, which ended in front of a brick wall.
This was obviously a storage area. But does that mean we’re in France? It was impossible to tell. To their left, the rails continued into the distance and disappeared around a curve.
A guard’s roost stood on the walkway. The enclosed structure jutted beyond the catwalk by a meter, supported by metal struts. Grimy windows overlooked the tracks. Spray-painted over the door in blue was 5-z.
Diago zeroed in on the doorknob, but it didn’t twitch. No one emerged to inspect the portal. The hut possessed a vacant air.
Or maybe that was wishful thinking. Diago kept the door in his sights, ready to squeeze the trigger at the first sign of trouble.
Near his left arm, the portal sputtered and darkened. The webbed sigil flashed one final time and ejected a bright flash. The light crackled over their heads and latched onto a cable. Sparks showered the walkway as it rushed toward a larger glyph in the shape of an alarm that clung to the side of the guard hut.
Diago rose and traced a sigil for darkness. He coughed a scorpion the size of his palm into his hand. Even this spell maintained that annoying golden light, but he had no time to complain.
He flung his scorpion onto the cable with more force than necessary. The spell practically overshot the wire. Reaching out with one claw, the arachnid managed to latch on to the cable. Chasing the bright sigil, Diago’s song doused the warning glyph just before it reached the guard shack.
“Good save,” Guillermo murmured.
“Thank you.” Diago kept his bead on the door.
“Do you think someone missed all that noise?”
“Maybe. There is still enough room to hide in there. They could be out of sight behind one of the doors.”
Guillermo stood. “If anyone was coming, he would have shown himself by now.”
“Unless he radioed for backup.”
“Move on it, then. Even if it’s empty, we’re too exposed up here.” Guillermo scowled at the scene. “Let’s find some stairs.”
Shrouded by shadows, Diago led the way forward. At the hut, he examined the door for any protective wards. What he found was a smear of blood by the doorknob. Fading around the bloodstain were the bright crimson fragments of the Devil’s Fingers. Feran had passed this way. And not long ago.
“We’re on the right trail. But it’s locked.” He stepped aside to give Guillermo room to work. “This is your territory.”
Wasting no time, Guillermo knelt and inserted a thin strip of wire into the lock. Within seconds he’d tripped the mechanism. They slipped inside and shut the door. The room was tight and held the scent of Feran’s fear.
A stool and a small table
that apparently served as a desk occupied the area by the back wall. Another door, opposite the one they’d entered, led to the next section of the catwalk. No more guard shacks were visible from this post, but a field radio occupied the shelf opposite the table.
Switching it on, Guillermo lifted the headset and listened. Frowning, he gestured for Diago to join him, tilting the earpiece between them.
A voice spoke in Castilian “. . . Operation Red Soldier goes into effect in twenty-four hours . . . all units in sectors Blue, Green, and Gold are on standby . . .” A burst of static interrupted the transmission. “. . . melee in Choral Room Two needs cleanup . . . Portal Five-Z is officially disabled. Choral units will shift attention to Operation Fall Gelb. Base camp out.”
The transmission ended.
Guillermo switched off the radio. “Fall Gelb. It’s German.”
“Case Yellow?”
Guillermo nodded. “From what Miquel’s intelligence operatives in Germany have discovered, Operation Fall Gelb is Queen Jaeger’s plan to invade France.”
A shot of fear chilled Diago’s veins. “And Jordi is helping her.”
Outside the hut, the lights dimmed on the catwalks but didn’t go out. Guillermo scowled at the darkened area. “Do you see what they’re doing? The choral units are like generators, pulling their energy from one area in order to strengthen another.” Guillermo tapped the glass with one blunt finger and pointed at the metro cars. “Somewhere in this base is a portal that enters France, and if there is one, there might be more.”
Diago looked down at the tracks. “But metro cars? Don’t you think armed soldiers on metro cars would draw attention?”
Guillermo shook his head. “They’ll go in as civilians and set up residences within the cities. Jaeger and Jordi are moving a fifth column into place to assist the mortal invasion along the border.”
“If the Germans are involved, do you think there are portals from Germany into France?”
Guillermo nodded. “It’s very possible. Which means our plan hasn’t changed: we need to get Carme’s notebook, or we lose a crucial spy network. Then we’ve got to locate the maps of these portals. We must learn where each one is located so we can shut them down. We’ll start here.” He pointed to the table behind Diago. “See if there is a map of some kind in there, or notes—anything to tell us where we are.”
Diago opened the drawer and rummaged through the papers. “Blank requisitions. Some are in Castilian, some in French.”
Guillermo joined him. “Requisitions for what?”
“Transporting pharmaceuticals.”
“What?”
“Could that be Operation Red Soldier?” He gave the forms to Guillermo.
“Maybe, but I doubt it. Red Soldier sounds more like a tactical exercise.”
Diago continued his search. Taped to the back of the drawer, he found an envelope. Curious, he withdrew it.
The flap was soiled and well worn. Inside were photographs of various naked and semi-naked women in pornographic poses. Diago cleared his throat. “Well, that’s, um . . . not what I was expecting.”
“What’s there?” Guillermo looked over his shoulder.
“Blondes, brunettes . . .”
“Wow. That’s . . . quite a collection.”
“Explains why the floor is so sticky.” Diago tossed the envelope back in the drawer and wiped his hand on his pants.
“Don’t be so sanctimonious. You were once a young nefil lusting after mortals.”
“I think that was you.”
Guillermo folded one of the requisitions and stuffed it into his pocket. He glanced out the window. “We’ve got company.”
A nefil in a Nationalist uniform trudged along the catwalk, looking at his feet. Maybe he’d escorted Feran to whatever destination lay beyond the tunnel’s twists and turns before returning to his post. He certainly didn’t move like he suspected interlopers.
Guillermo positioned himself behind the door. “You’re the bait.”
With a soft curse, Diago returned to the stool and drew his pistol.
The nefil unlocked the door and stepped inside. He looked up and saw Diago. “Hey!” His fingers scrabbled against his holster’s flap. “You’re not supposed to be—”
Diago lifted his pistol just as Guillermo shoved the door shut. With one beefy arm around the young nefil’s throat, Guillermo used his other hand to silence the youth’s squawk of protest.
“Hands up,” Guillermo whispered in his ear.
The nefil obeyed him.
The raw elixir of terror flooding the small office rocked Diago’s head and threatened to undo his sense of control. Wiping his mouth, he closed his eyes and fought against his natural instinct to provoke the youth into deeper paroxysms of terror.
Within moments he regained command of himself and assessed the soldier. The boy looked young, but nefilim didn’t age like mortals. The true key to a nefil’s age lay in his eyes.
Stepping forward, Diago disarmed him. As he did, he examined the nefil’s gaze for any sign of sophistication, or the deep knowledge that might indicate a nefil of experience or power.
The innocence he saw reflected in those hazel eyes told him more than a thousand confessions. The guard was in his firstborn life, and if his physical body was any indication, he was only a couple of years older than Diago’s son, Rafael.
And I’d want my son treated with dignity.
Still, all three of them knew the rules of war. If they intended to kill the youth, Diago didn’t want to prolong his suffering.
He looked over the boy’s head to Guillermo. “Kill him or question him?”
The guard’s eyes went wide. “Wait!”
Guillermo tightened his grip. “What can he possibly know? Nefilim don’t get shit details like this because they’re smart.”
The nefil’s mouth worked silently, his eyes begging Diago for his life.
Having empathy for the boy made his job harder, but Diago didn’t flinch from what needed to be done. He holstered his gun and drew his knife. “Were you the one who led Feran into the compound?”
“How do you know about—”
Guillermo rapped the side of the youth’s head. “Where is he?”
The nefil shook his head. “I don’t—”
Diago raised the knife. “I saw his blood on the door. Don’t make me add yours to it.”
The nefil made a small sound somewhere between a mewl and a groan. “Lieutenant Espina.”
“Who? Espina?” Guillermo’s forearm tensed, choking the youth silent. “What is Lieutenant Espina’s first name?”
“B-B-B-Benito.”
Guillermo’s eyes clouded with rage. “Did you hear that, Diago? Our old friend Benito Espina has been promoted to lieutenant.”
“Easy,” Diago murmured, though he wasn’t quite sure whether he addressed Guillermo or the guard. Once a member of Los Nefilim, Benito Espina abandoned Guillermo to work for Jordi. “Stay focused.”
If Feran reached Espina with the notebook, their job just got harder. Espina knew Carme’s sigils were deadly. He wouldn’t rush to break her wards. Nor would he wait too long.
A note of hope touched the boy’s voice. “Do you know Lieutenant Espina?”
Guillermo growled. “Benito Espina used to be a member of Los Nefilim. Then he turned traitor and fled to Portugal in 1932. We’ve been hunting him for some time. And now I’ve found him.”
The nefil paled. “Oh.”
Moving slowly, as if stalking a rabbit, Diago caught the youth’s gaze with his own. “What is your name?”
“Private Enrique Martinez.”
“How long before your relief arrives?”
“Any minute.”
That was a lie. If they were shutting down the portal, they’d have no reason to post a guard.
“How many are coming?”
“Twelve.”
More bullshit. Diago assessed Martinez’s fear. He wouldn’t be this terrified if he knew help was on the way. “Yo
u’re lying to me, aren’t you?”
“You’re going to kill me.” His voice trembled slightly before he regained his defiance. “Why should I tell you anything?”
Because I can force you to tell me, little fool. Diago maintained eye contact with Martinez. Just as his spell on the ridge required his daimonic talents, so did this one. The angel-born could sing a mortal or even a very young nefil into a compliant state, but the cost to both the nefil and the mortal was great. For the daimon-born, it was a simple matter of clouding their victim’s vision. Having been the target of such a spell, Diago rarely used it.
But war changed everything, and morals that once possessed clear lines faded into shades of gray. They needed Martinez’s information, however scant it might be, and time was against them.
Keeping his left hand low, Diago pinched a dark shadow from the air and rubbed it between thumb and forefinger. A scorpion with halos of silver and gold emerged between his fingers. He lifted his arm in such a way as to cause the band of his watch to catch the light. He hummed his glyph to life and tossed it at Martinez’s left eye.
The young nefil blinked. The scorpion ran across Martinez’s iris, dragging a shadow in its wake. Two heartbeats passed before Martinez’s shivering eased.
But not completely. Without enough time to perform a stronger spell, Diago relied on his voice to keep the youth calm and talking. “How long before your relief arrives?”
“No one is coming.”
“How long did it take you to escort Feran to Espina?”
A shrug. “Fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty.”
That was a long walk and made for a huge pocket realm. How the hell can they maintain something this big? Diago shuffled the question to the back of the queue. Martinez certainly wouldn’t know the answer. “How do we find Espina?”
“He’s on the second level, but you don’t want to find him. He’s either with the generalissimo or questioning prisoners.”
“Operation Red Soldier, what is that?”
The youth’s confusion was real. “I don’t know. This was a temporary assignment. My orders are to lock down the station and then return to my unit topside.”