by T. Frohock
But they’re here. He stopped again to listen. This time he caught the distinct sound of men talking. To the left.
Edging into the tunnel, he crept along for eight meters before he saw their shadows. One of the men’s voices resonated deeper and more musical than the others. With the timbre of a nefil. Rafael held his breath. Carlos. He was sure of it.
A recessed area of the wall gave Rafael a hiding place. He settled in to wait.
Carlos said, “Okay, I’m going to the station and will bring the cars forward.”
Another man, this one mortal, grunted. “Bring it around the loop and meet us at République.”
“Give me an hour.” Carlos lumbered into view, carrying a small rucksack of tools.
Rafael huddled against the wall and watched Carlos pass. He held his breath until the other nefil walked by the stairs leading toward the main tracks.
Exhaling softly, Rafael leaned out just enough to see. Carlos proceeded for a few meters before he stopped and looked toward his coworkers. Rafael ducked back into the recess, his pulse thundering in his ears. He counted to ten. When he looked again, Carlos was gone.
What the hell? Where did he go? Rafael left his hiding spot and crept down the tracks, expecting Carlos to grab him at any moment.
But Carlos had disappeared. Rafael slowed, glancing back toward his hiding spot until he felt he was close to where Carlos had stood. Examining the wall, he found a much narrower niche in the bricks. The low door led to a corridor that opened into another tunnel.
Peeking around the corner, he glimpsed Carlos’s back as the nefil rounded a bend. Without his daimonic sight, Rafael wouldn’t have seen Carlos at all. The only time when being daimon works in my favor.
Rafael glanced over his shoulder. When he explored the metro alone, he placed sigils on the intersections to mark his way, but to do so now would alert Carlos to his presence. Instead, he removed his bright yellow scarf and tucked it close to the corner with the tail pointing toward the way out.
Stepping lightly to avoid making a sound, Rafael stayed clear of the broken slats between the rails. Caged lights populated the walls every few meters, but the luminance was minimal at best, leaving the concrete to glow eerily in sepia tones. Thick cables snaked along the walls and ceiling.
Sneaking around the bend, Rafael glimpsed Carlos’s shadow as he approached an intersection and went right. Rafael followed. When he reached the corner, he left his metro ticket beneath a piece of gravel.
Carlos walked toward a spark that flared in the distance. Snapping his fingers, he hummed a tune and took his voice through the scales. When he found the right pitch, he filled the tunnel with his song.
The spark flared again in red and gold, brighter this time, stretching across the tunnel like a spider’s web. It was a glyph. The lines grew stronger, but they still weren’t clear enough for Rafael to gauge the ward’s purpose from this distance.
Moving gingerly around the rotting boards, he tiptoed forward. As he neared, he detected the faraway sound of voices. It was a choral arrangement all tuned to the same frequency and sung by nefilim, but something about the chant sounded off . . . like they’re straining for notes far beyond their reach.
Another blast of light flooded the tunnel. When it ended, Rafael found himself less than a meter away from Carlos. But I didn’t move . . . did I?
Preoccupied with his spell, Carlos didn’t notice Rafael. He traced a sigil, like a mirror image of the one blocking the tunnel. When he finished, he raised his arms and joined his voice with those of the unseen nefilim.
The chorus reached a new crescendo. The glyph’s sparks bathed them in fiery light.
Rafael’s flesh goose-pimpled. This was neither natural nor right. He backed up a single step. His foot skidded in the grit and he fell, sitting hard on the gravel. Before he could rise, the ward flared, the heat of it flowing around him like a river of fire. His ears felt full, stuffed up like when he had a cold. He forced himself to yawn, but the pressure didn’t ease.
Rafael froze and listened as his father taught him. Analyze the enemy’s song to understand their intent. Then you can construct a defense. Don’t react. Act.
The passage amplified the arrangement: tenor, tenor, bass, bass . . . all male. The motif was a signature of Die Nephilim.
The tenors ceased to sing, leaving only the vibrations of the bass in the measure. Once more he heard Miquel say: Move the breath of darkness . . . through your throat . . . your throat . . . throat . . .
The boards shook beneath him. Dust drifted downward from the ceiling. The tracks blurred. The tenors rejoined the movement. Reverberations echoed in the darkness. Red-gold beams flooded the passage along with the sound of the nefilim’s voices, breaking as they sang.
The passage tilted sideways. Rafael cried out. He covered his head. His flesh pulled tight around his skull. Biting back a second scream, he leaned forward.
As abruptly as it began, the nefilim’s song stopped, and the sigil’s fire rushed back into the glyph, leaving him to shiver in the sudden cold. Lowering his trembling hands, he dared to look.
Rafael couldn’t believe his eyes.
10
The rough boards of the metro were gone. The tracks around Rafael looked new. Several meters away, two sets of rails formed a Y-intersection; the traversing line merged with the tracks that Carlos and Rafael occupied, and then continued forward to a pinprick of light in the distance.
Carlos whirled. “What the hell? You little fuck!”
Rafael scrambled to his feet and traced a protective ward between them. “Stay back, Carlos!” Where the hell are we? Or maybe a better question was: How do I get back to Paris?
The sigil was gone. No, that wasn’t right. He glanced over his shoulder and saw it behind him, still stretched across the tracks, but now the lines of the ward were dead and gray.
Shit, shit, shit. Rafael struggled for calm.
From behind Carlos, someone moved out of the adjacent tunnel. He was a tall man, possessing Don Guillermo’s imposing height and bearing. “Who is there?”
The deep resonant voice belonged to a nefil, and the question was spoken in Castilian, not Catalan or French. From the accent, Rafael determined the man was either from Madrid or had spent a great deal of time there.
Carlos’s back stiffened. He flexed his fingers at his side and gave Rafael a poisonous glare. It took Rafael a second to realize that Carlos was afraid.
If Carlos is scared and he is supposed to be here, what does that mean for me? Rafael took another step backward.
Meanwhile, Carlos answered, “It’s me, sir. Carlos Vela.”
A second figure lurched from the depths of the adjoining tunnel. This man’s body was bent and crooked. He spoke but the words were virtually unintelligible, as if his mouth couldn’t form the syllables. His voice rang with unpleasant vibrations.
Like the echo from an abyss. It was a strange thought, but once it lodged in Rafael’s mind, he couldn’t shake it loose.
“K ’asa?” he asked.
Qué pasa? Is that what he’s asking? What’s happening? Rafael edged closer to the sigil behind him.
The strange humpbacked man lurched forward, pushing his way between the tall nefil and Carlos. He pointed one four-fingered hand at Rafael. The creature’s thumbs were as long as his index fingers, a distinctive physical trait that belonged to the angels in their natural form.
Then where are his wings? Struggling past his fear, Rafael recalled Father Bernardo’s lessons on the fallen angels. For once, he didn’t resent the long hours spent transcribing angelic names while the other children played. Only one breed of angel possessed no wings. Grigori.
Rafael’s throat tightened. He gasped in short hard breaths. No, it can’t be. They’re supposed to be imprisoned deep beneath the earth.
Puckered scars rose over the portrait mask that covered the lower portion of the angel’s face. The tin mask created a mortal visage with prominent cheekbones and finely shaped lips pur
sed in a scowl. “K’ien . . . ?”
Quien? Is he asking who I am?
The tall nefil stepped forward. “Who indeed?” he asked Carlos. “Who is this and how did he follow you?”
Carlos turned to the nefil. “I’m sorry, Generalissimo. I had no idea he was there.”
Generalissimo . . .
That’s what they called Jordi Abelló. Rafael switched his attention back to the nefil. His red-gold hair was lighter than Don Guillermo’s auburn locks, but the brothers shared the same mouth and tawny eyes.
But how is he in Paris? Rafael stumbled but still managed to keep his ward between them. Unless we’re not in Paris anymore. He finally found his voice. “Where am I?”
Jordi held out his hand in a gesture of peace. “Easy, son. What’s your name?”
“He’s Rafael Diaz, Diago’s brat,” Carlos snapped as he made a grab for Rafael’s arm.
Dancing out of reach, Rafael answered them with a shout that charged his sigil, lighting the tunnel in shades of amber and green. Lines of gold from the carmine angel’s tear in his ring reinforced the glyph’s power. Curved edges spun around the ward’s perimeter, and the gold sharpened the blades with angelic fire.
The Grigori took quick brittle steps, as if he walked barefoot on shards of glass. He and Jordi lifted their hands together to shape a sigil that glittered black like ice. The Grigori howled a withered note and spat it at the glyph. With a flick of their wrists, they flung it at Rafael’s sigil.
The shard of black cut through Rafael’s ward as if it weren’t there. Instinctively, he lifted his hands to shield his face. Black lines encircled his wrists like cuffs made of broken glass, fishhooking into his flesh, rooting deeper under his skin with every movement.
Rafael cried out and stumbled sideways, trying to throw off the bonds. Before he regained his balance, someone kicked him behind his leg. He went down. One knee struck a railroad tie, the other bit into the gravel. He tried to form another ward, but the cuffs gouged deeper into his wrists, reaching for the tendons.
Panic blinded him. Someone jerked him to his feet and pinned his arms to his sides. Carlos, it’s Carlos.
Rafael threw his weight forward, hoping to tip Carlos off balance. The bigger nefil barely moved.
A pair of polished boots entered Rafael’s range of vision. Jordi.
The nefil grabbed a handful of hair and jerked Rafael’s head back. “Is this true? You’re the son of Diago Alvarez?” Snapping his fingers, Jordi fired a ward for light.
Jordi’s face blurred in the sudden brightness. Rafael blinked the tears from his eyes. He glimpsed the large gold signet Jordi wore. A dented and misshapen angel’s tear crouched in the setting. Lacking the clarity of a true angel’s tear, milky veins of umber spurted across the scarred surface of the pale green stone.
Rafael turned his face, as much to avoid recognition as the nearness of that cancerous tear, but Jordi held him tight.
“It’s true.” Jordi breathed the words reverently as if he’d stumbled on the most precious of songs.
A flush of heat surged through Rafael’s body. Darkness edged his vision. Don’t faint, don’t faint . . . He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. Pain drove back the shadows. The vertigo passed. Look in his eyes. Don’t be afraid. He forced himself to do the first, but couldn’t find the will for the second.
Jordi’s smile broadened. “What an exceptional gift you’ve brought us, Carlos. Come see, Sam.”
As Sam—the Grigori—approached, Rafael noticed the tin mask’s scowl had changed. Now the lips were spread in a line with one corner quirked upward in an expression of curiosity. The angel’s scarred eyes burned milk-white with chartreuse veins. He stroked Rafael’s cheek with one gray finger. Spiders walked as lightly as his touch. “Do you know what we are, boy?”
Though the angel’s pronunciation was no better—his mouth, there’s something wrong with his mouth—Rafael quickly learned to parse the broken syllables so he could understand. “Grigori.”
“Hmm, yes.” The glass chains on Rafael’s wrists hummed in time with Sam’s vocalizations and grew slick with blood. “Very good. So you know our power.”
“You rebelled against the Thrones and were cast into the abyss. You’re criminals.”
The Grigori’s eyes whorled in purulent hues. “A historian, hmm?” Sam dug his fingernails into Rafael’s cheek, dragging his claw downward and leaving a trench of fire in its wake.
The scream slipped through Rafael’s lips before he could stop it.
The angel chuffed a harsh laugh, which was absorbed by the tin mask. “Criminals.” He spoke the word with a growl. “We lost a war, like you did. That was our only crime.” He leaned close, his fetid breath seeping around the mask to bathe Rafael’s face. “And if that makes us criminals, what are you?”
We haven’t lost. We’re in retreat. But Rafael didn’t answer the Grigori. Anything he said would be the angel’s excuse for more cruelty. His papá always said the smart nefil knows when to shut up.
Then again, a smart nefil wouldn’t be here in the first place, he thought bitterly.
Sam’s eyes crinkled and matched the mask’s tin smile. He tapped the ring on Rafael’s finger. “Give it to us.”
“No.” Rafael clenched his fist.
Jordi’s eyes widened in surprise at the refusal, and something else flickered in his gaze . . . a hint of admiration.
“What is this?” Sam’s slap rocked Rafael’s head.
Stars burst across his vision. His scalp burned and he realized Jordi had released his hair. He tasted blood again and would have fallen, but Carlos held him upright.
Sam turned to Jordi. “Is it demented?”
Why does he want the ring? Everyone knew an angel’s tear was useless to anyone but the recipient.
“Leave it on him,” Jordi said. “We’ll soon control him and his song. Let the angel’s magic augment his voice. We’ll use it to our advantage.”
Satisfied with the answer, Sam snaked his hand into Rafael’s pocket. “Let’s see what else it has.”
Rafael twisted his hips, but the Grigori wasn’t to be denied. Barely able to move, Rafael closed his eyes and submitted to the angel’s groping. Coins rattled onto the gravel, bouncing along the railway ties, followed by a few francs.
Jordi glanced toward the faraway light. “What do you say, Sam? Shall we postpone our trip to Barcelona for a few hours?”
The Grigori nodded. “This will prove entertaining.”
A cold knot of fear twisted in Rafael’s stomach.
Jordi signaled to Carlos with an absent wave of his hand. “Let him go.”
Carlos released Rafael and snatched the fallen money from the tracks.
Fucking scavenger. Rafael resisted the urge to kick the older nefil in the head.
Jordi nudged the center of his back. “See that light?”
Rafael nodded.
“Start walking. Carlos, keep an eye on him.”
Carlos pocketed the money and then gave Rafael a shove, practically knocking him off his feet. “You heard the generalissimo. Get moving.”
Stumbling forward, Rafael righted himself. The glyphs covering the cuffs bit less deeply into his wrists as long as he didn’t struggle. “What’s going to happen now?”
Carlos smacked the back of Rafael’s head. “You’re going to shut up.”
Trembling less, he licked his swollen lip and used the time to consider his situation. This was no different from escaping Blondie. Stay calm. Pay attention. Look for the right moment to get away. But no matter how he tried, he couldn’t get his heartbeat under control.
Before he’d formulated even a flimsy plan, they drew closer to the light. A train engine squatted on the tracks, seething steam into the air. On the platform, soldiers in Nationalist uniforms directed the prisoners, who unloaded crates from the freight cars.
Carlos pushed Rafael toward a set of concrete stairs that ascended to the platform. The rough steps were high. Rafael stu
mbled on the first one. Carlos grabbed his arm before he could fall and half supported, half dragged him the rest of the way.
As they reached the last step, the soldiers turned toward them. Rafael saw nothing friendly in their faces. He looked away from their smirks, feeling the blood rush into his cheeks with his own humiliation.
Carlos maneuvered him toward a door. Inside, a sergeant sat at a rusting metal desk and spoke into a field radio. At the sight of Rafael and Carlos, he abruptly ended his conversation and slammed the handset into the case. “Where the fuck have you been, Vela? You were supposed to be here yesterday.”
“I had an appointment this morning that I couldn’t put off.”
Jordi entered the room. “It’s all right, Sergeant. Carlos brought us a guest.”
The sergeant shot to his feet and saluted Jordi. “Generalissimo!” He turned to the angel and bowed. “Your Eminence. We thought you’d already left for Barcelona.”
Sam’s portrait mask leered at the sergeant. “Surprise.”
The sergeant’s expression said there was nothing pleasant about this particular surprise. He gestured to Rafael. “Shall I process him?”
Rafael wasn’t sure what that meant, but he didn’t like the sound of it.
Jordi shook his head. “Carlos will see to it. Take him to the interrogation room. Give him a thorough search and then wait for us.”
Rafael’s fear returned in a rush. Interrogations? What could he possibly tell them that Carlos already hadn’t?
Carlos’s grip became a vise on Rafael’s biceps. “Why me?” the older nefil asked.
Jordi lit a cigarette. “Because I trust you won’t fuck up.”
Klaxons suddenly went off, startling everyone to a standstill.
Jordi’s head snapped up. “This wasn’t supposed to happen until tomorrow.”
“Good thing our little friend delayed our departure.” Sam’s mask displayed a death-head grin, the alarms obviously music to his ears. “Soon we’ll know how effective our work has been.”