Carved from Stone and Dream

by T. Frohock

  Before he could ask for more information, she turned and walked away. Rafael exhaled slowly through parted lips. That was close.

  As his godmother, Juanita had as much of a hand in his upbringing as his parents. Where Papá could be lenient and Miquel often delegated correction to Papá, Juanita remained a stern disciplinarian. Rafael never doubted her love for him, but he likewise understood affection wouldn’t deter either her reproach or the severity of her punishment.

  And her sigils burn like fire. He didn’t tempt himself with the radio a second time. Instead, he ran his fingers through his curls and stepped into the hall, closing the door behind him.

  While the apartment was expansive when compared to the residences of other nefilim displaced by the war, it was only because Ysabel commanded Los Nefilim in Don Guillermo’s absence, and they required more room. Even so, both Ysa and Doña Juanita were conscious of appearances. They didn’t want to be accused of living in opulence while others struggled, so they kept their living arrangements austere.

  A pair of tall windows opened onto a balcony that overlooked the street below. Sigils of silence churned along the window frames and over the doors, flashing like silverfish when they caught the light.

  An upright piano stood against one wall. Miquel’s guitar leaned against it, and Papá’s violin case rested on the top board. Beside the violin was a satchel containing the notes from Papá’s collaborations with Don Guillermo.

  My mission accomplished. It was the only job his fathers had given him: to get the score for the Key into France and keep it out of the enemy’s hands. Terrified that he’d lose the valuable papers on their way out of Spain, he’d memorized them and practiced re-creating the pages until he could faithfully reproduce each note without referencing the originals.

  Except no one had given him a job beyond protecting the scores. And now I’m just useless.

  End tables held boxes of files and a couple of the grimoires they’d brought. The rest of Los Nefilim’s extensive papers were entrusted to the library at the University of Toulouse.

  Beyond a pair of open doors, the cluttered living room gave way to the dining room, where the table contained a few files. Suero sat there, making notes.

  Blond in the way of the Spanish, he was a lesser nefil, but Ysabel kept him close as her father did. His incredible memory coupled with his ability to navigate bureaucratic entanglements made him a vital part of her household.

  “Any news?” Rafael asked as he approached.

  Suero didn’t bother to ask what kind of news Rafael wanted. He merely shook his head sadly. “Nothing yet.” He looked up from his notes. “They’ve been through worse than this, you know. They’ll be fine.”

  Ysabel emerged from the bedroom she shared with her mother. She carried an open file and skimmed the page as she walked.

  Rafael noticed Carlos Vela’s name on the tab. She was probably reacquainting herself with his profile.

  Today, she’d tamed her auburn curls into a fashionable style, and like her mother, she wore long pants and a blouse. Being in command suited her, adding a new dimension of confidence to her beauty. She looked sharp enough to cut out a man’s eyes.

  A twinge of jealousy tugged at Rafael’s heart as he watched her. It must be good to have work to distract her from her father’s absence. When it appeared as if she intended to walk past him without acknowledging his presence, he said, “Good morning, Ysa.”

  Looking up from her file, she paused beside him and smiled. Only then did he notice the deep circles beneath her eyes. “Good morning, my dark rose. Did you sleep well?” The lines etched into her face said she hadn’t.

  Not wanting to give her more to worry about, he lied and said, “Yes. Yes, I did.”

  Three hard raps sounded at their door.

  “That must be Carlos,” she said as she turned back toward the living room.

  Suero rose and strode to catch up with her. “I’ll get it.”

  “I don’t see why . . .”

  Suero whispered, “These men will try to take your power if they can. They think they’re smarter than women. Let him see you in charge, not acting as a domestic. Go. Sit at the table.”

  Rafael mentally kicked himself. I should have realized that and offered to answer the door. He needed to learn to be like his papá so that Ysa would see him as someone intent on preserving her prestige as Don Guillermo’s ambassador.

  Moving quickly, he went to the head of the table and held the seat for her. It was the right move.

  “Thank you,” she murmured as she allowed him to push the chair closer to the table. “Sit beside me.”

  “Just a moment.” He ducked into the kitchen. “Do you need any help, Doña?”

  Juanita looked up from the tea platter. Her gaze swept over him. “I thought I told you to comb your hair.”

  “It looks like this all the time.”

  She sighed and shook her head, but affection touched her smile. “Grab that tray of pastries and bring them to the table.”

  He did as she asked and then resumed his place beside Ysa.

  At the door, Suero admitted Carlos, a scruffy nefil, who held his battered hat between his hands. He wore a rumpled suit with a striped shirt, the collar buttoned tight against a patch of stubble on his neck. His eyes were hard and gunmetal blue, his hair blurred into nondescript shades of gray intermingled with black. He shuffled into the living room, feigning a weariness that couldn’t disguise the cunning appraisal he gave their furnishings.

  When he noticed Juanita, he presented her with a deep bow. “Doña.”

  She nodded to him as she took her seat at Ysa’s right. “Welcome to France, Capitán Vela.”

  Ysa rose and met him at the dining room doors. She took his hand in both of hers with a grip that Rafael had seen Don Guillermo execute a thousand times. It was simultaneously warm and friendly, yet Ysa handled the gesture with a certain detachment that Don Guillermo never managed to convey.

  “Capitán.”

  He bowed his head to her. “Doña Ysabel, I am so glad to see you are safe.”

  Ysa guided him to the table. “Please sit. Tea?”

  “Thank you.”

  Suero poured as Ysa resumed her place at the head of the table. Once more Rafael held the chair for her, not because she needed anyone to assist her, but as a sign of respect for her position. Once he’d seen to her comfort, he took his place at her left hand. Suero sat between Carlos and Rafael with a blank pad of paper. He lifted his pencil, his cue that he was ready to begin taking notes.

  Carlos eyed the food and then glanced nervously first to Juanita and then to Ysabel. “Don Guillermo will be proud to see the young woman you’ve become, Doña Ysabel.”

  The compliment dripped with condescending overtones.

  Ysa’s lip twitched with her irritation, but she handled her reply with diplomacy. “My heart never left Spain. If I had my way, I would have stayed for the fight.”

  “It’s good you left, Doña. It’s not a fit place for anyone now, especially a lady such as yourself.”

  She gestured for him to help himself to the pastries. “Please, eat.”

  Carlos took one of the pastries and wolfed it down in two bites. After a moment of hesitation, he ate another before he sipped the scalding tea.

  While he picked the crumbs from the plate, Ysa opened a file and scanned the page. “You were liberated by members of Les Néphilim from the French internment camp at Argelès-sur-Mer last week, yes?”

  Carlos cleared his throat. “Yes, Doña.”

  “What is it like in the camps?”

  “It’s not good. The French mortals practically starved us to death with just two sardines a day. They ration the bread; two kilos between twenty of us.” He looked pointedly at the spread of food before him.

  Rafael tried to see the table through Carlos’s eyes. He’s probably thinking that nefilim starve in the camps while Don Guillermo’s court feasts like the bourgeoisie. Nothing could be further from the
truth. Breakfasts like this were brought out for visiting nefilim and weren’t the standard fare for Ysa or any of the high-ranking members of Los Nefilim. But Carlos didn’t know that.

  When no one bothered to defend the lifestyle, Carlos continued, “The French put the Senegalese over us. Algerians, too. Sometimes they dumped the bread on the sand and watched us fight over it. Dirty bastards, all of them.” He shot Rafael a scornful glare.

  We’re everything he hates, but me especially. Carlos saw nothing but Rafael’s dark skin, which was merely a shade lighter than Miquel’s smoky brown coloring. Because people like Miquel and I aren’t supposed to have power over people like him. The prejudices were nothing new. Fortunately, Miquel had taught Rafael to stand up for himself.

  “I’m not Algerian, Carlos.” Papá came from the Berber tribes, and Mamá took the mortal form of a gitana so Papá would find her attractive. Rafael didn’t remember much about her, but once he’d enticed Papá to sketch her face, and the likeness between her and Miquel was that of siblings. “You know that.”

  “I never said you were Algerian.”

  “Your face did.”

  “You’re a ridiculous boy.”

  “And you’re an ass.”

  “Rafael.” Juanita’s stare worked like a slap.

  He lowered his head and let his hair shadow his brow so Carlos wouldn’t see his blush. Papá would have silenced Carlos with a glare, and Miquel would have thrust one sharp word into the conversation like a blade. Why can’t I be like them?

  Beneath the table, Ysa’s hand snaked onto Rafael’s knee. She gave him a gentle squeeze before withdrawing.

  At least Ysa was on his side. Her touch heartened him and took the sting from her mother’s reproach. He feigned indifference to Juanita’s admonishment, placing his cup back in its saucer, proud that his hands didn’t tremble with his humiliation.

  Carlos glowered at him. “Is that how your papá has raised you?”

  Rafael met Carlos’s stare but made no apology for his insult. “No. Miquel taught me to swear.”

  Carlos’s lips puckered.

  Before the older nefil could retort, Juanita cleared her throat and gestured to Ysa.

  With a nod to her mother, Ysa smoothly put the conversation back on course. “Tell us how you’ve been, Carlos.”

  “My stomach still isn’t right. The water was terrible and we . . .” Carlos reddened and wiped his palms across his thighs. “This isn’t talk for ladies. Forgive me.”

  Juanita’s eyes narrowed at the comment, but she held her silence and allowed Ysa to carry the retort.

  “You forget, Carlos, Mamá is a doctor, and I’ve assisted her in the clinic. We’ve treated the shits as well as gunshot wounds. So there’s little you can say to shock us ladies.” Her light orange eyes sparkled fiercely and failed to match her conciliatory tone. “We know you’ve had a demeaning experience.”

  A smile of approval tugged at Juanita’s mouth. Ysa’s expression didn’t change.

  Because she is afraid. Rafael saw it in her posture and the tightness of her mouth. She was scared and didn’t want it to show.

  She pinned Carlos with a glare. “Did you cross the border with Miquel’s unit?”

  Carlos glanced nervously at Juanita. “Yes. But we were separated at one of the checkpoints. I arrived at Argelès first and watched for him.”

  Rafael’s tension lessened. If they made it to the border, then Miquel was probably somewhere in France right now. Once Miquel was home, they’d find Papá and Don Guillermo. Miquel could handle anything. Rafael exhaled slowly and gave his ring one satisfied turn.

  “And did you locate him?” Ysa watched Carlos as intently as Rafael.

  He shook his head. “The only thing I found in the camps was la arentitis.”

  Rafael looked down so no one would see his disappointment. The carmine angel’s tear glittered sadly in its setting. I’ve lost my mother and now my fathers. He placed his palm over the stone and clenched his jaw.

  Ysa leaned forward. “La arentitis? Sanditis? I don’t understand. What does that mean?”

  Carlos flicked his wrist dismissively. “It’s what the mortals call the madness induced by the conditions. They’re already traumatized by the war, and then the French force them to live on that cold beach with no shelter. The conditions have driven some of the mortals insane. One man, he packed both his suitcases and put on his best suit, and then he just waded into the sea. Said he was going to walk to Mexico.” Carlos laughed at the image. “Crazy, huh?”

  How can he possibly think that’s funny? Rafael bit his bottom lip to keep from speaking out of turn again.

  A quick glance at Juanita told him that he wasn’t the only one upset by Carlos’s lack of empathy. Shades of indigo bled into the whites of Juanita’s eyes—the first clear indication of her anger. She quickly regained control of herself and blinked once. When her eyelids parted again, she looked like a mortal woman with striking blue eyes.

  The fire of Ysa’s aura snapped once in a bright halo of rage. Suero continued to write, but his cheeks flared red with displeasure as well.

  Carlos must have read their reactions as clearly as Rafael. He coughed uneasily. “Anyway, they call it la arentitis—because of the sand. Sanditis.”

  Before he could stop himself, Rafael blurted, “That won’t happen to Miquel.” He was their rock. When the rest of the world crumbled, he stood firm. “Miquel doesn’t break.”

  Carlos turned his pitiless gaze on Rafael. “Everybody breaks, boy. Give them enough pain and take away their hope, and anyone will falter.”

  A chill ran through Rafael’s chest.

  Ysa snapped her pencil against the table. “And you found no trace of Miquel?”

  Carlos shook his head, but his regret seemed insincere—the callous glint in his eyes spoke more of vengeance than sorrow. “Nothing. Perhaps he was sent to another camp.”

  From the corner of his eye, Rafael saw Ysabel trade a cloaked look with her mother. They don’t trust him.

  Ysa made a note on her paper. “Thank you for your report, Carlos. Are you comfortable? Do you need anything? Money? Clothes? Food?”

  A muscle along Carlos’s cheek jumped when Ysa addressed him by his first name and with such familiarity. Suero was right: in Carlos’s eyes, Ysa was a child.

  Rather than chide her, he kept his tone civil. “No, Doña. You’ve been most generous already. I found a job working in the metro.”

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like something less taxing? We own a cabaret on the Pigalle, Folies Divine. We would welcome you there.”

  “Thank you, Doña, but I’m fine. I like the physical labor. Soon I’ll be ready for the fight again.” He rose. “I hope you will forgive me, but if there is nothing else, then I should go. My shift starts soon.”

  “Of course. Thank you for coming.”

  “Wait a moment.” Juanita went into their bedroom and returned with her black doctor’s bag. She portioned out several white tablets and placed them in a glass vial for Carlos. “For your stomach. Take one before each meal.” Then she wrapped two pastries in a cloth and gave them to him, as well. “For later.”

  “Thank you, Doña.”

  When he reached for the items, she wrapped her hands around his and emphasized, “Nothing has changed, Carlos. Come to us if you need anything.” The color of her irises seeped into the whites again, but this time the transmogrification seemed intentional. She turned her eyes into threatening orbs of lapis lazuli that pulsed with her authority. “And be prepared should we need you.”

  The double entendre didn’t go unnoticed by anyone in the room. They were here to help him, or destroy him, the choice was his.

  Carlos bowed his head and gave her a slight nod, but not before Rafael noticed the color rising to his cheeks. He wouldn’t meet Juanita’s gaze.

  Is he ashamed, or afraid?

  His hands trembled slightly when she released him. “Of course, Doña.” He mumbled the promise before bowing dee
ply. Then he turned toward the door.

  “I’ll see you out,” Suero said after a quick nod to Ysabel.

  When the door shut behind them, Ysa glared at Carlos’s empty seat. “He’s lying about something.”

  Rafael wanted to be strong, like Miquel, like Papá. But if the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach was any indication, he wasn’t doing it very well. “They were separated at a checkpoint. Miquel should have been right behind him.”

  “Patience,” Juanita advised. She pushed a plate toward Rafael and then turned to Ysa. “What about the other camps?”

  “According to our contacts within Les Néphilim, they have found and freed all our nefilim.”

  Feeling guilty for having something to eat while Miquel probably went hungry, Rafael merely picked at the croissant. “Maybe he is on his way here? He could have gotten out on his own. He could be walking to us. Do you think that is possible?”

  Juanita returned to her seat. “Anything is possible, Rafael. Don’t lose hope.”

  “No one simply vanishes.” Ysa stared at her report as if it might magically produce answers. “But counting Miquel, we have nineteen nefilim whose whereabouts are currently unknown. Our milicianos are coming across the border and then disappearing in the camps.” She made a short notation on the page. “Which are run by the French.”

  Juanita raised one eyebrow incredulously. “You suspect members of Les Néphilim are involved with whoever is taking our milicianos?”

  “You said it yourself, anything is possible. Rousseau wants me to think she’s my friend, but she’s not. Papá is right. The kings and queens of the nefilim are rivals even when they’re allies.”

  Rafael didn’t try to keep the resentment from his voice. “Carlos didn’t vanish.”

  “No. He didn’t, did he? Carlos isn’t telling us everything.” Ysa made a note. “I want Suero to put someone on him. I want to know who he works with, who he sees.”

  Undercover. That was it. Rafael lifted his head. “Let me go to the camps. I can pose as a soldier, or even a guard. Carlos said Algerians were helping. And the French don’t know an Algerian from a Berber.” Warming to the idea, he talked faster. “The disguise would give me access to the rolls. I can see if our nefilim are being sent elsewhere.”