Carved from Stone and Dream

by T. Frohock

  Carlos hesitated. “Should I put him in a cell and help with the search, Generalissimo?” Every note of the question said he hoped the answer was no.

  “Only if you want to die.” Jordi made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “You have your orders. Carry on.”

  Glad to be away from both Jordi and the fallen angel, Rafael didn’t resist when Carlos hauled him back onto the platform. They left the train behind, moving in tandem with a group of prisoners, who were herded forward by more armed guards.

  Rafael sneaked glances at their faces but saw no one he recognized. Judging from their features, none were Spanish. Are they Internationalists? He listened for a word, or even a murmur to give him an accent, any clue as to the men’s nationalities. Yet none of them made a sound.

  Just beyond the platform, the corridor narrowed and branched. The prisoners were directed to the left. Carlos took the hall to the right.

  They passed several wooden doors that would look more at home in a monastery, than a military compound. Rafael heard locks click into place as they passed.

  They’re locking down. Even if he could get away from Carlos, there was no place to hide. He hurried to keep up with the older nefil, doing everything he could to memorize the route.

  Talk to him, form a connection . . .

  Rafael licked his lips and whispered, “You’re afraid of them.”

  Carlos’s fingers tightened, but he made no reply.

  The only light came from overhead, where naked bulbs were strung by a wire along the ceiling. The main corridor continued with two adjacent halls splitting to either side. Carlos veered to the left.

  “We never made you afraid, Carlos. Did we? Didn’t Doña Juanita—”

  Carlos shoved Rafael against the wall and slammed his palm across Rafael’s mouth. “One more word and I’ll gag you. Do you understand?”

  Feeling the blood pulsing hard in his veins, Rafael met the other nefil’s gaze and nodded. But this isn’t over. I’ll try again. You’re scared of them and unsure, and I’ll find a way to exploit that. He had to. Carlos was his only connection to Paris right now.

  Carlos jerked him back into motion.

  They continued down the hall. Other than patches of plaster that crumbled and revealed the patterns of bricks beneath, or the long handrail bolted to the wall, there wasn’t much to distinguish the flanking hall from the main corridor they’d just left. No offices lined the arched walkway—just meters and meters of emptiness. A smell of rot permeated the damp air. The boards under their feet absorbed the sound of their footsteps with the spongy give of rotten wood.

  They arrived at a narrow stairwell. Carlos gestured for Rafael to go first.

  Rafael climbed on shaking legs, counting the steps to take his mind off his fear. Forty-eight steps later, they reached the landing.

  To the left was an alcove, where a nefil sat on a hard chair in front of a rickety table. Beyond the nook, a second stairwell descended to a steel door. A long hall extended from the alcove into darkness. The corridor didn’t look well used.

  That might be my way out. He sidled to the right.

  Carlos caught his arm again. “You’re going the wrong way.”

  The nefil looked up from his game of solitaire and assessed Rafael with icy disdain. “We don’t have a children’s section, Carlos.”

  Carlos ignored the jibe. “The prisoner’s name is Rafael Diaz.”

  The nefil sniffed and withdrew a worn notebook from the desk’s drawer. He scribbled Rafael’s name on a dirty page. Rafael couldn’t help but notice the number of names with lines drawn through them.

  Dead? Is that why their names are crossed out? Are they dead?

  “Does he have a number?” The nefil picked his nose.

  “Not yet. He’s here for interrogation.”

  So soon? We’re here so soon? He still didn’t have a plan. What if they ask me questions? What do I say?

  “Hmm.” The guard shut the notebook and stood. Leaving his rifle propped against the wall, he withdrew a set of keys from his pocket and went to the next set of stairs.

  Carlos prodded Rafael forward.

  Moving on numb legs, he descended to the steel door. The nefil unlocked it and stood aside so they could pass. “Hey, Cabello, you have company.”

  Without waiting for an acknowledgment from Cabello, he slammed the door shut behind them. The key clacked in the lock.

  Rafael flinched and then hated himself for letting his fear show.

  Cabello occupied a table just as small and shaky as the one above. He put down his novel and addressed Carlos as he stood. “Who do we have?”

  “Rafael Diaz.”

  While Carlos and Cabello talked, Rafael looked down the corridor. A handrail ran along the left wall. Four doors with bolts on the outside were on the right. At the end of the hall was another door—also steel and also shut.

  Cabello gave Rafael’s good cheek a light slap. “Hey. Wake up. Room two.” He pointed down the hall.

  Rafael didn’t move. I can’t do this. I always thought I could, but now I’m here and I can’t do this.

  Carlos poked him. “You heard Cabello. Room two.”

  Rafael couldn’t get his breath. His throat felt swollen.

  “Jesus, Carlos, you’ve scared the shit out of the kid. You can’t do that if you want to get anything out of them.” Cabello guided Rafael into motion. “Come on. Do as you’re told, and you’ll be fine.”

  Somehow, Rafael doubted that.

  11

  Miquel awakened back in his cell. One eye remained swollen shut, the lids of the other barely parted. Blurred images swam into focus.

  That fucking hood. He glared at it. Cabello—he now knew who was who—had dropped it on his way out. There it remained, crumpled on the floor, innocuous enough until someone slipped it over Miquel’s head. Then, in that hot darkness, the sand crept between his lips and into his throat.

  Agony gnawed his muscles. One of the bricks dug into his broken rib cage, another tormented his hip. He vaguely remembered dislocating his shoulder while struggling to free himself from the cuffs, and if he didn’t pop the joint back into place, it wouldn’t heal correctly.

  Struggling into an upright position, he leaned against the wall. With a trembling hand, he grabbed the wrist of his injured arm and pulled it forward and straight. The joint popped back into place. A sob stabbed his chest with rusty nails. Something was broken deep inside him. He tasted blood in the back of his raw throat.

  The hood rustled. He froze, barely daring to breathe. Grains of sand leaked from the canvas.

  “La arentitis.” I’m going insane. Or maybe he wasn’t going. Maybe he’d already arrived.

  The canvas bunched together and slithered forward several centimeters. It fluttered as if touched by a breeze, or a sigh.

  Miquel’s eye widened. That’s not happening. The hood isn’t moving.

  In the corridor, a door slammed. Miquel’s flesh crawled at the sound. Had Feran taken the bait? Or was it Benito, coming for the next round of questioning?

  No. It was too soon. Or was it? Wasn’t that how it worked? Come back at odd times, remain unpredictable, throw the source off balance?

  Terror reached up from the pit of his stomach to engulf his heart. If they took him now, he would break for certain.

  A key clicked in the door’s lock.

  “No, please . . .” He clamped his mouth shut, but the litany continued in his head: Please, please, no more, not yet, no more . . . let it be Feran . . . I can bluff him . . .

  The door opened. He shut his eye. Someone whispered his name. Nico.

  Miquel opened his eye. “I can’t . . .”

  “Shh,” Nico whispered as he dropped a rucksack to the floor. Kneeling, he gave Miquel a quick examination. “Anything broken?”

  Miquel indicated his shoulder. “I popped it back into place.”

  “Is this the first time you’ve ever done that?”

  Miquel shook his head.

&nb
sp; “Then I’m going to trust you did it right.” Nico withdrew a red, white, and blue vial and tapped four pills into his palm. Before Miquel could resist, Nico pushed the tablets between his lips.

  The Italian leaned close. A sweet, musky scent followed the swing of his hair. “You don’t have to swallow. They’ll dissolve under your tongue. Just relax, relax. It’s Pervitin. We give it to the mortals to keep them awake. It helps nefilim heal faster and sharpens our songs. Let it heal you. I need you. Please. Please.” That one word whispered over and over like a prayer.

  The Pervitin, as bitter as the pain, melted on Miquel’s tongue. Tracking the second hand of Nico’s watch, he distracted himself by counting the minutes ticking past. At five, his empty stomach cramped.

  A seizure racked him. Nico slipped something hard between Miquel’s teeth. Wood . . . it’s a piece of wood.

  He chewed the small block as another tremor rattled his body. The heat surging through his muscles turned into a conflagration, accelerating his healing, and bringing horrendous pain in its wake.

  Nico held his head and stroked his hair. He whispered a litany of, “Please, please, please . . .”

  And Miquel joined the prayer with one of his own: Kill me, please, let this kill me . . .

  He didn’t die.

  Blackness edged his vision and held him in its grip. Another seizure rattled through him before the darkness receded in slow stages. The agony subsided. A strange euphoria washed through him, relieving him of his suicidal thoughts.

  He lifted his hand. The bruises had yellowed, not quite healed but no longer the throbbing black malignancies covering him moments ago. The lacerations scabbed, and that broken thing within him cried out when he moved but no longer sucked his breath away.

  Nico guided a canteen to Miquel’s lips and gave him water.

  Miquel had never tasted a drink so sweet. He tried to take the flask from Nico, but the Italian withdrew it. “Too much and you’ll be sick.”

  Setting the canteen aside, Nico pulled clothing from the pack and dropped it on Miquel’s thighs. It was a Nationalist uniform that matched those of the guards. With an urgent nod, Nico gestured for Miquel to get dressed.

  This time, Miquel didn’t argue. All that mattered was getting away from these poisoned sigils and that damned hood. He dressed and quickly laced the boots. Now comes the real test.

  Nico offered his hand, but Miquel ignored him and stood unaided. The broken thing within him wailed. He slowed his movements. The pain dimmed. As long as he remained careful, he should be fine.

  At the door, Nico signaled all was clear. Miquel adjusted the tasseled cap and stepped into the corridor. He closed the door, sliding the lock into place. The cell opposite his was silent. Had the occupant died?

  The small window beckoned his curiosity. Before Nico could stop him, he unlatched the peephole’s cover and peered inside.

  A nefil with a vacant stare squatted on the floor. Sigils wrapped his torso, erupting like veins along his arms and chest. He clawed at the wards. His blood seeped into the ligatures and lines, charging them with power.

  Another glyph—thick and brown, the color of rust and bruised apples—snaked into his mouth and forced his jaws wide. A low moan emanated from deep within the man. He whipped his head from side to side, obviously panicked. Without warning he rose and charged the door, slamming his body against the metal.

  Miquel jumped back. “Jesus Christ, what’s happening to him?”

  Nico slammed the peephole cover shut. “What’s going to happen to you if you don’t move.”

  “Can we save him?”

  “Are you mad? You can’t save anyone here. Listen to me: The Grigori thinks the Messengers were wrong to consign themselves to breeding programs. He believes the superior soldier must be created with drugs, or surgeries. We failed with this nefil. He’s gone insane.” He gestured at the row of cells. “Like the others.”

  Miquel counted eight cells, including his own. “We should kill them.”

  “If you do, the Grigori will know. And then he will send guards who will find you gone.” Without another word, Nico walked toward the exit.

  Miquel looked at the rows of doors and shuddered. He backed away and followed the Italian. I’m a coward.

  They reached another metal door. Nico inserted a key into the lock.

  Miquel put his hand on Nico’s arm. “I didn’t say I would help you.”

  “But you will, because I know the way out of here.”

  Fair enough. Miquel licked his lips but made no promise. “Where is here?”

  “You’re in a pocket realm guarded by sigils, and because it’s maintained by nefilim, it’s unstable. Now stop talking and let’s go.”

  Nico opened the door to reveal a narrow hall that gradually ascended away from the cells. The floor itself was uneven and covered with rough boards. A metal handrail ran along both sides of the rock walls, probably to help guards stabilize themselves as they transported unruly prisoners.

  Halos formed around the naked light bulbs that hung suspended from the center of the ceiling. The filaments hissed, like whispers.

  Or sand moving over stone. Miquel blinked the sweat from his eyes. It’s the drug. It did more than heal me. The Pervitin heightened his senses, making him hyperaware of every sensation.

  Nico snapped the last bolt into place.

  Miquel’s skin crawled at the clank of metal on metal. His fingers twitched and he wished for a gun. Why hadn’t Nico brought one?

  Licking his lips, he kept his voice low. “How long does the Pervitin’s effects last?”

  Nico appraised him carefully. “Given your size and the extent of your injuries, I’d say you have maybe an hour.” He set off at a sedate pace.

  Miquel fell into step beside him. “So soon?”

  “Are you disappointed?”

  Yes. “Relieved. I don’t like using drugs.”

  “The effects are short-lived. Our test subjects rapidly build a tolerance, so the dosages must constantly be increased.”

  “Is that what I am? A test subject?”

  Nico didn’t answer. He signaled for silence as they neared two closed doors. The lack of exterior bolts meant offices, not cells. Fortunately, they remained shut. If anyone noticed two shadows passing beneath their thresholds, they made no outcry.

  The incline grew steeper. Although Miquel had been hooded whenever they took him from the cell, the route felt familiar to his feet. He also recalled steps, and soon enough, they reached the stairwell.

  The uneven stairs led upward to a sharp bend. Then twenty steps, I counted twenty steps. At the next landing was an alcove. The recess was empty except for a rickety table and chair.

  Where is the guard? He didn’t have time to consider the problem. Nico was moving too fast.

  They crossed the landing, went down another flight of stairs, and through a long corridor without any doors. The hall merged into a main passage.

  Nico turned right. Miquel paused at the intersection. On the other side of the wide hall, he noted another corridor similar to the one they had just left. Did that go to the interrogation rooms? If he walked across and counted the steps, he could be sure.

  He looked to his left. The passage continued into the distance, although it seemed to grow wider rather than narrower.

  Nico tapped his shoulder. “Don’t get lost,” he hissed.

  Miquel nodded and followed him. They continued along the main corridor and came to more stairs. At the next level, Miquel noted several nefilim in white lab coats. They stood outside a door and smoked. One lifted his hand to Nico.

  With a nod, Nico passed them. The plaster seemed newer here and well maintained. They encountered adjuncts, who carried clipboards or files and moved with the studied purpose of men on important errands. A few marked Nico’s face and nodded to him, while others made eye contact with Miquel before shifting their gaze quickly away.

  Rooms with open doors branched out on either side of the corridor. One con
tained a map room. A full-scale map of the Barcelona metro occupied the wall facing the door.

  Miquel memorized the details of each room. The information would be valuable for Los Nefilim.

  The corridor ended by another set of stairs. They climbed again, one flight and then two. At the next landing, Nico paused and checked his watch.

  They were alone. Miquel seized the opportunity. “You said this is a pocket realm. How do we get out of it?”

  “Sam has managed to create two main portals: the first begins at the abandoned fort at the top of this mountain. That portal remains open at all times. That’s where we’re going.”

  “How do we reach it?”

  “Via an elevator that goes to the surface.”

  “And the other gate? Where does that go?”

  “Into Barcelona. It’s how Jordi is able to move quickly back to Franco’s side if he’s needed. They’re also working on an adjacent gate that will open in Paris.”

  Miquel went cold. He feigned ignorance. “What could possibly be in Paris?”

  “The German Inner Guard is preparing to move their armies into France. They call it Operation Fall Gelb. They’ve used their mortal puppet, Hitler, to manipulate enough German support for another war. With the mortals and her nefilim, Jaeger intends to attack France from Germany.”

  Miquel knew about the plan, but he held his silence to see if Nico revealed anything new.

  “While Jaeger attacks from the east, Jordi will launch a surprise maneuver through the Parisian portal. They’ll sandwich Rousseau’s forces and annihilate her.”

  All this is worth it for that piece of information alone. Jordi’s involvement through a portal realm was the nugget they didn’t have. Miquel’s mind raced.

  If Jordi and Jaeger were successful, the German nefilim would be in the perfect position to take England. Then, with the Spanish, French, and English divisions of the Inner Guard under Jaeger and Jordi’s control, Guillermo would lose the last of his allies. He’d be forced to either abdicate or flee into exile somewhere in the Americas. Their chances of reclaiming Spain grew more remote by the hour.

  Miquel had to get to France and warn Rousseau. They might not stop the mortal invasion, but they could certainly mitigate the damage on the Inner Guard’s front. “What are we waiting for?”