Carved from Stone and Dream

by T. Frohock

  Juanita’s voice was firm. “No. No one will believe you’re a soldier at your age.”

  Unfazed, he pressed his point. “What about as a servant? I don’t care what kind of cover you give me. I had a nightmare this morning. Miquel is in trouble. I’m sure of it.” He quickly described the nightmare’s sequence to them, hating the way his anxiety caused his voice to break when he spoke of Miquel’s distress. “Don’t you see? Miquel is telling me to leave the safety of my home and to come to him. We’ve got to find him, and the camps are the place to start.”

  Juanita shook her head. “I cannot see Miquel sending you into the internment camp at Argelès.”

  She was right. It was too far away and their resources were limited. Papá would compromise. Meet her halfway. “Okay. Fine. Then let me follow Carlos. That I can do here. Under your supervision.” He turned to Ysa. “Make that my assignment.”

  Before Ysa could answer, Juanita said, “No, Rafael. You’re fourteen—”

  “And in my firstborn life. I know, I know, but Miquel and Papá have taught me well. I can do this.”

  Juanita showed no sign of relenting. “You’re not your papá. You’re not Miquel. You don’t have their experience—”

  “Why do you keep interrupting? You let Ysa handle Carlos. Let this be her decision.”

  Juanita’s palms struck the table hard enough to rattle the china. Veins of blue seeped into the whites of her eyes and she didn’t blink them away as she did with Carlos. “Because I am your godmother, and I will have to answer to your fathers if something happens to you.”

  Painfully aware that he echoed Ysa’s constant refrain to her father, he didn’t back down. “How will I ever get experience if I don’t try?” He turned to Ysa. “Give me a chance.”

  Ysabel opened her mouth, but she glanced at Juanita.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Juanita give an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

  He fought to keep his voice from rising with his frustration. “Ysa. All I want is what you wanted. To prove myself.”

  Looking down, she shook her head. “No. I cannot lose you, too.”

  “Two years ago, I took a bullet for you!” He jabbed his finger in Ysa’s direction. “When I was twelve. Twelve! We were in the streets when we were cornered and I pushed you out of the way. And later, later, when the bombs were falling all around us in those last days, I carried missives between the nefilim, and no one caught me. No one! I was too fast for them. Don’t you remember?”

  Ysa wouldn’t meet his gaze. “I remember . . .”

  He whirled on Juanita. “And didn’t I outwit my grandfather, a god among the daimons? I tricked Alvaro into showing me the truth of his nature, and Papá let me. Papá was there. He believes in me. Why don’t you?”

  Juanita’s gaze softened, and for just a moment, Rafael thought he might have won her over, but then she shook her head. “This isn’t Barcelona, Rafael. The same rules no longer apply. The answer is no.”

  And that was it. They didn’t treat him like a member of Los Nefilim, but more like a possession—a rare treasure that mustn’t be lost. “That’s not fair.”

  Ysa stood, finally meeting his gaze. “Please, my dark rose, it’s not about being fair. I understand your pain, truly I do. But we’re in a very precarious position here. Give me a day to think of something. Just one day.”

  How can she do this to me? After all the years I stood up for her when she challenged her father? All she had to do was support his case. Instead, she capitulated to her mother without a fight.

  The apartment suddenly felt too close, too hot. Rising, Rafael went to the door and put on his coat.

  Alarm washed over Ysa’s features. “Where are you going?”

  “Out.” Out, where I can walk and think and please stop hating you. The thought stunned him practically as much as Ysa’s refusal to stand behind him, but he knew it was true.

  “Rafael—”

  “Don’t, Ysa.” Please stop talking before I say something I’ll regret.

  “All I’m asking is that you trust me!”

  He paused on the threshold and met her gaze. “Like you trust me?”

  Turning away from her hurt, he shut the door and went down the stairs. As he passed Suero, he lowered his head.

  “Hey, where are you going?” Suero asked.

  Rafael tried to push by him without speaking. The narrow stairwell gave them little room to maneuver.

  Suero grabbed his arm. “Rafael?”

  “Out. I’m going for a walk.” Because that’s what Miquel would do. He’d walk to Barcelona and back before he’d hurt Papá with harsh words. Rafael twisted free.

  A wave of uncertainty crossed Suero’s brow. “Be careful.”

  Rafael put his back against the door and rolled his eyes. “I’m always careful.” He escaped outside before Suero had a chance to retort.

  The damp air did little to extinguish his anger as he strode toward rue du Calvaire at a hard clip. Bowing his head, he pretended the brisk wind caused the water in his eyes. He pushed his way past other pedestrians, not slowing his pace until he reached rue Drevet.

  Turning right, he followed the block until he arrived at the next intersection, where he took the stairs down to rue la Vieuville. As he passed beneath a window, he caught the muted refrain of Robert Johnson’s “Hellhound on my Trail” uncoiling beneath a phonograph needle. The song followed him down the steps.

  Normally, he’d pause and listen. He loved the Mississippi Delta blues because the music shared the same deep expressive style as flamenco’s cante jondo—deep song.

  And it’s Miquel who sings cante jondo the best. The thought of his father resurrected his dream, and he realized he’d accomplished nothing by running away. Slowing his pace, he allowed himself to be carried along with the flow of pedestrians until he found himself on rue des Abbesses. There, the entrance to the metro beckoned him.

  A plan formulated in the back of his mind as he crossed the street. The metro was a common destination for a lot of people, and his time was his own. I don’t need Doña Juanita’s permission to follow Carlos.

  What could it hurt to go down and just look around? No one need ever know how he spent his day, unless he came across some worthwhile information. Then Juanita will have to admit she is wrong about me.

  Smiling to himself, Rafael went down into the station and purchased a second-class ticket. Miquel always said the best plan was a simple one. Ride the trains and watch for workers. He just needed to spot Carlos’s crew and get a fix on his location. Then he’d decide what to do next.

  A few people loitered on the platform and more descended the stairs behind him. It wasn’t long before the station was full. He took a spot near the tiled wall and watched the people, wondering what it was like to be a mortal, living in ignorance of the supernatural threats surrounding them.

  His reverie was broken by the jostling of bodies near the stairs. Eight young men descended in a cluster, shoving their way through the crowd.

  The youngest was a thick-bodied boy with greasy black hair and a pimply face. He looked to be close to Rafael’s age. The others were older, ranging from sixteen to twenty. The fact that their suits were frayed hand-me-downs did nothing to take the swagger from their walk. They wore their fedoras tilted at jaunty angles on their slick hair.

  Rafael recognized them. They were members of Le Milieu, France’s underworld.

  Goodfellas. The spit dried in his mouth as he lowered his head, hoping they hadn’t marked his presence. This group belonged to a gang in the Pigalle, which was run by Pierre Loutrel, who was known more commonly in Le Milieu as Pierrot le fou, or Crazy Pete.

  They called the tall boy with steely eyes Blondie. If he owned any other name, Rafael didn’t know it. Blondie was a fixture in the Pigalle. He’d visited Los Nefilim’s cabaret twice, looking for Loutrel’s protection money. Ysa refused to deal with underlings and channeled her payments through more reliable sources. When she told him so, Blondi
e called her a liar.

  At that point, a few members of Los Nefilim had taken Blondie and his comrades into the alley and had given them a beating over the insult. The yellowish ring of a bruise still encircled Blondie’s eye. Word on the street was that Blondie swore revenge for the humiliation of that beating.

  And he’ll definitely remember I was there. Because Rafael had placed himself between Blondie and Ysa, pushing back at the goodfella’s threats with bravado of his own.

  Keeping his head down, he observed their progress. They were headed straight toward him. They likely saw me before I realized they were here. Swell. His first foray into spycraft, and he hit a snag before he even found his prey.

  Blondie tossed his cigarette aside and pointed at Rafael. “You little fucker. I remember you. You live with that Spanish bitch.”

  A fight was out of the question. He couldn’t take on eight of them alone.

  Nor could he use his song against them. Ysa made it clear that members of Los Nefilim were to remain as inconspicuous as possible, not just to keep the mortals from sensing their presence, but to stay well beneath Queen Rousseau’s notice, as well.

  Taking care of an extortion racket with the mortal means of a beating was one thing. Singing down a gang of goodfellas with sigils in a crowded train station was something altogether different.

  And I need to prove that I can handle myself. Rafael exhaled softly. His papá said that being smaller than everyone else left only two choices: be the most vicious or the most cunning.

  Then it’s time for cunning. Rafael moved into the crowd, keeping other mortals between him and Blondie’s crew. The people parted around him as if they sensed he was the target of a dangerous predator. A woman gave him a guarded look, drawing her young child against her hip. A man carrying a briefcase sidled away as Rafael drew near. If Blondie attacked him, these strangers wouldn’t get involved.

  Because they’re afraid. Knowing that didn’t make him feel better. For the first time since he’d left the apartment, he found himself hoping Suero would show up on some pretext.

  Blondie cut through the crowd like a panther through gazelles, with his very presence splitting the herd. He nipped close and bumped Rafael with his shoulder. “What’s the matter, little man? Someone steal your fire?”

  A spark of rage momentarily extinguished Rafael’s fear. “Piss off.”

  “‘Piss off.’” Blondie sneered. “I’m going to piss on your face, you little shit.” He snatched Rafael’s wrist and twisted his hand backward.

  A shock traveled up Rafael’s forearm. He swallowed a yelp.

  Eyeing the gold ring with its carmine angel’s tear, Blondie licked his lips. “That looks expensive. I’ll forget the beating if you give up the ring.”

  Rafael clenched his fingers into a fist. He’d die before he’d give up his mother’s tear. “Fuck you.”

  Blondie slapped him.

  Rafael spit in the gangster’s face and brought his knee up, aiming for Blondie’s groin. Blondie anticipated the move and shifted to the left. Rafael’s knee met the air, but the new position allowed him to jerk free of the taller boy’s grip.

  He ducked between two of Blondie’s bigger goons and dived deeper into the crowd. A quick check told him he was too far from the stairs, he’d never clear the station without getting caught.

  Next time, keep a position close to the stairs.

  If there is a next time.

  Rafael kept moving. The train wasn’t an option. Once isolated in a car with the gangsters, he’d have no way out.

  “The tracks, then,” he whispered. Years of Barcelona street-fighting had taught him to use the tunnels. In the darkened passages, he’d have ample opportunity to lose them.

  Time was short. The next train was due any minute. To outrun it, he needed enough of a head start to reach one of the alcoves designed for the maintenance crews. The recessed areas allowed workers a safe place to wait for the trains to pass.

  But the first alcove is far down the tracks. Even with his supernatural speed, Rafael anticipated a close shave.

  The train’s distant horn echoed down the tunnel. Blondie gestured to his thugs. They spread out in the crowd, ready to herd him into a car.

  Rafael dashed past a woman, reached the edge of the platform, and jumped.

  9

  Rafael missed the hot rail by centimeters. Someone screamed.

  A man hurried to the edge of the platform and offered his hand. “Come on, son! Get out of there before you get killed!”

  Rafael barely noticed the commotion. The vibrations of the oncoming train rattled the gravel beneath his shoes. He had less time than he thought. Taking off, he’d barely gone three meters when someone shouted a second time. Glancing over his shoulder to see why, Rafael stumbled.

  Blondie had leapt from the platform. He staggered before he got his legs under him. “It’s all right!” He gestured to the crowd. He held one hand close to his thigh. “I’ll save him! Come back, son.” He sauntered forward a few steps before breaking into a run. “Come back, you son of a bitch!”

  A pinprick of light sparkled in the distance and grew stronger by the second.

  The train. Rafael took off again. The report of a gunshot followed on the heels of the bullet that struck a pipe. Steam hissed in the cold air.

  Rafael veered left, leaping over the tracks to stay close to the wall. Another wild shot took out a light.

  The train didn’t stop at the platform as it usually did. Rafael didn’t look back to see why. The tunnel brightened beneath the lead car’s headlamp, illuminating the recess a few meters away.

  The smell of hot metal choked the air. Rafael chased his shadow. Summoning a burst of supernatural speed, he hurtled forward.

  Blondie screamed. It was an inarticulate sound of animal rage and fear, drowned by the sudden blast of the train’s horn.

  Rafael dived into the alcove. He came in too hard. His shoulder struck the bricks and his arm went numb.

  The rumble became a roar. The ground shook as the train thundered past with cars swaying. The mortals’ features loomed ghostly behind the windows.

  As soon as it passed, Rafael remained still and listened. All he heard was his own ragged breathing, loud in the sudden silence.

  Blondie might have survived. It was possible but not likely. Take no chances.

  Using the last of the train’s resonance, Rafael traced a man-shaped sigil on the ground. He sang it to life with the power of his voice and sent the decoy onto the tracks, where it moved to the center of the tunnel at a crouch.

  Several moments passed before the image faded. No gunfire erupted in the passage.

  Rafael crept to the edge of the recess and risked a peek. Blondie was gone. A man’s shoe with the foot still inside lay beside the rail.

  After the atrocities he’d witnessed during the war, Rafael thought himself inured to the horrors of death. Yet something about the jagged bone gleaming whitely over the polished shoe sickened him.

  Because it’s the same as Blondie’s grin; all splintered ivory and hate. Even in death, the gangster seemed triumphant.

  Rafael leaned forward and vomited. Bracing his palm against the wall, he waited until his dizziness passed. I’ve gotta go—get out of here. Yet no matter how he tried, he couldn’t force his feet to move back the way he’d come. The dark sound of Blondie’s death might be there, waiting for him.

  Wiping his eyes, he turned left and wandered deeper into the metro. Blondie’s friends had seen them both disappear into the tunnel. They’ll say I murdered him.

  And hadn’t he? He’d known the mortal wouldn’t survive a race with the train. But I never expected him to jump.

  That wouldn’t mean anything to nefilim like Carlos. They’d accuse him of using his song to lure Blondie to his death. The ultimate sin for a nefil.

  The severity of the situation dug its teeth into Rafael’s heart. “Shit!” He kicked the black rocks in frustration. “Fuck, fuck”—he slammed his fist agains
t the wall—“fuck!”

  He risked losing all the goodwill his papá had worked so hard to gather. The ones like Carlos, who were jealous of Papá’s influence with Don Guillermo, would seize Blondie’s death to prove the daimons couldn’t be trusted.

  I’ve endangered them all—Papá, Miquel, Ysa, Don Guillermo . . . And that’s what hurt. He’d just proved Juanita right. “Shit. They’ll never let me out of their sight again,” he muttered. Unless he proved Carlos couldn’t be trusted.

  Of course. Carlos. Carlos might be his damnation, but the other nefil could very well be his salvation. Surely he was down here by now. But where?

  Rafael stopped and considered his surroundings. The Pigalle station was in the distance ahead, but Blondie’s goodfellas knew the metro as well as Rafael. Several of them probably awaited him there.

  But there were other ways through the tunnels.

  He edged along the wall until he came to a passage. Gravel covered several steps that ascended to a worker’s tunnel, which continued for a hundred meters before connecting to the line leading to Anvers. He waited for the next train to pass before he took to the tracks again.

  Walking in the darkness, he shut out his fear and concentrated on finding Carlos. Sounds that escaped mortal ears reached him in that lonely tunnel: the scratch of a rat’s paws as it scuttled across the gravel; the low buzz of electric lights; voices from the people who waited on the Anvers platform.

  Keeping to the tracks and the smaller passages, he followed the rails from one line to the next, taking care to remain hidden from the mortals’ sight. With good timing and great caution, he passed Anvers unseen, then Gare du Nord, where he picked up the number five line to Gare de l’Est. Three times he came upon work crews, but their voices were mortal and none of the men resembled Carlos.

  Between the Lancry and République stations, he found a passage that he hoped would take him around the busy platforms at République. Fifteen stairs descended to a tunnel. The clatter of tools and voices reached him. Descending warily, he checked both directions. No workers were in sight.