Carved from Stone and Dream

by T. Frohock

  Nico looked up. “The shift change. The elevator runs continually during that time, so we shouldn’t be noticed.”

  Miquel nodded. “Are there more gates than the ones you’ve mentioned?”

  “Yes. But they’re not stable. Sam is using nefilim to avoid alerting the angels and the Thrones to our presence. Nefilim’s vocal cords aren’t designed to reach the required notes to sustain the Key, so the Grigori is using multiple choral groups and drugs to make up the deficiency. The more gates, the greater the strain on the chorus to maintain the few that work. Trust me, this is the surest way out.”

  The last thing Miquel wanted to do was trust Nico. But so far, he’d guided him true, and, really, he had no other options that he could see. So when Nico signaled it was time to go, Miquel nodded. Nico opened the door and they emerged on a platform. Rows of armed soldiers stood in squads of eight.

  Miquel felt their eyes on him as he passed. Stop being paranoid. Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that the men were waiting for something other than the elevator. Does it matter?

  Just ahead, the corridor ended in a T-juncture. Nico went left. A cargo elevator stood at the end of the hall. It was all Miquel could do to restrain himself from running to the cage.

  I’m going to make it out of here and see my family again. A great surge of hope filled his chest. The Pervitin sent a spiral of euphoria through his brain. Just a few short steps and then we’re free.

  A box hung from a long cord. Nico went to it and pushed the green button. Gears growled. The cables behind the cage began to move.

  Slowly, too slowly.

  Klaxons suddenly went off. Red lights flashed along the ceiling.

  Miquel’s hope soured in his stomach. “Does that mean an escape?”

  A short jerky nod was his only answer.

  Miquel glanced over his shoulder.

  Ten soldiers stood at the juncture, blocking the way back. Three pointed their pistols at him. The other seven stood together in formation. One man stepped forward and began the first line of a sigil. Behind him, the other soldiers mirrored his movements.

  They’re preparing to sing against me. “You set me up, Nico.”

  “No.” Eyes wild, the Italian backed away. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  Miquel almost believed him. Because I’m a fool.

  Then the elevator churned to a halt and a voice shouted, “Miquel de Torrellas!”

  Chills goose-pimpled his flesh as he shifted his attention to the elevator’s car. A Grigori in a Nationalist uniform wrenched the gate open and stepped into the corridor. He wore a grinning portrait mask over the lower part of his face.

  Milky eyes assessed Miquel from head to foot. “We remember you from your firstborn life when you were Benaiah, son of Jehoiada, chief of Solomon’s army.”

  Miquel swallowed hard. He glanced around. Nico reached the line of nefilim and stopped.

  Sweat slicked Miquel’s body, yet he wasn’t scared. He had nothing to lose. His only choices were escape or die. Anything less jeopardized Los Nefilim.

  Miquel backed away from the Grigori and stopped himself at two meters. Every step backward was a step away from freedom. Unless Nico was lying about that, too. He didn’t allow the doubt to nag him.

  With the soldiers behind him, the elevator was his only route off this level. The other squads they’d passed had to be waiting around the corner. That’s how he’d plan an ambush. Leave ten men exposed. If one fell, others were ready to step into his place.

  They finished their sigil and watched the angel.

  Miquel turned to the Grigori and asked, “Who are you?”

  “We are Samyaza.”

  One of Satanael’s generals. At least Jordi was consistent in associating with the most dangerous of the fallen angels. Miquel straightened. The Pervitin hummed through his limbs.

  Samyaza stepped closer. “It was you who slayed Solomon’s brother Adonijah at the altar. Oh yes, we remember you. And the time for your reckoning has arrived.”

  Adonijah. Known in this incarnation as Jordi Abelló. “I remember him.” Miquel snatched a silvery thread of the soldiers’ fear from the air. He combined it with the grays of Samyaza’s arrogance to trace a glyph with barbed teeth and sharp notes. “Bring him out. Let him weep on the altar while he begs for his life.” Miquel hummed and charged the glyph with the resonance of his voice. “Let me murder him again.”

  He flung his sigil at the Grigori with little hope of striking his target. Only a king or queen of the Inner Guard possessed the necessary speed and thrust to injure an angel. He hoped for a distraction. If Samyaza danced even a few steps to the left, Miquel had a clear shot at the elevator.

  Miquel’s glyph momentarily disappeared from sight and then returned to view. It grazed Samyaza’s brow. The Grigori howled but didn’t relinquish his position in front of the lift.

  Stunned by his success, Miquel hesitated, but only for the fraction of a heartbeat. Reflexes honed by centuries of battles kicked in and he quickly fashioned another ward, this one more complex and made with bright pearlescent ropes designed to bind the angel.

  Never before in all his incarnations had he performed with such speed and precision. The Pervitin. It has to be the drug, and it’s working like a sip of fire. He finished the last line and sang the ward to life, forcing it toward Samyaza.

  The Grigori gestured to the soldiers. They charged their sigil and channeled it to him. The angel used it to sever the ropes of Miquel’s glyph.

  Once free, and working with angelic speed, Samyaza created another ward. Then he forced the soldiers to sing.

  Miquel looked from the terrified men to the angel. His voice is damaged and he’s somehow singing through them. But how? The drug snapped through his brain, shifting his attention away from the question and back to survival as he noted the intent behind Samyaza’s new ward. It was the mirror image of Miquel’s, but rather than light, the strands roiled in shades of black and gray.

  As the sigil rushed toward Miquel, it spread, reaching out with thick tendrils, like the arms of an octopus, ready to chain his arms to his sides and fill his mouth. Like the prisoner in the cell below.

  Horrified by the image, Miquel grabbed a beam from one of the overhead bulbs to form a shield of blistering white between him and the Grigori. He lifted his arms and crossed his wrists behind the buffer.

  Samyaza’s sigil struck the defensive ward. The concussion jolted the breath from Miquel’s body. He didn’t fall, but the pressure intensified. The soles of his boots skidded on the slick floor as he was pushed backward.

  Darkness washed over him, momentarily blinding him. The wails of dying angels buzzed through his head. Midnight hues crashed against him and he raised his eyes in time to witness Armageddon raining down in ashes, settling like snow—black snow filled with flesh and bones and oh, how they died and burned and burned and burned because mortals forget but angels never do—in a miasma of death like nothing the mortals had ever known; cities smoldered beneath the bombs, falling like tears from the sky; dark mirrors reflected two realms: one a terrible kingdom filled with death, the other brighter, but still borne on sorrow . . .

  A sliver of black ice penetrated Miquel’s shield, the point coming mere centimeters from his forearm. The vision came to an abrupt halt.

  Miquel resumed his song. His shield flashed bright beneath the power of his melody. The black ice snapped in half. He drew the measures tight to wrap the song around his body.

  “Fight us, you bastard.” Samyaza stalked Miquel, lobbing more spikes of black ice that bounced off the shield to scar the floor. “Fight us!”

  From deep within himself, Miquel felt a primal urge to do just that. A foreign rage surged through his chest and reached for his throat, demanding to be released in a refrain of violence.

  He choked it down. The Pervitin sharpened his fury into a living thing, but he had to control it.

  “Show us what the Messengers wrought with their careful breeding.” Samy
aza’s mocking eyes danced over the mask’s lurid grin. “Or did they fail with you?”

  The enraged song burned against Miquel’s vocal cords. He clenched his jaw until he thought his teeth would crack. If he dropped his defenses, he’d present Samyaza with an opening. Striking the angel with a ward of his own was out of the question. In another incarnation, Miquel might have fought to the death, but Diago had taught him to retreat in strength.

  I’ve got to move, though. If I don’t, I’m dead. Pushing the toe of his boot against the floor, he summoned his strength and managed to gain eight centimeters. Precious, precious little, but more than he’d ever thought he’d manage under such an assault.

  Samyaza thrust another spear of darkness into Miquel’s shield. The force of the blow shuddered through his body. The pearlescent hues of Miquel’s song gave way beneath the ugly edges of Samyaza’s ward. The shadowy ice pricked the light and wiggled closer to Miquel’s heart.

  “Fight us as if you were in your firstborn life. Miquel is weak. Fight us as Benaiah.”

  Miquel suddenly heard Diago as if his husband stood beside him: Benaiah is dead, leave him in his grave. Come home to us. Come home.

  But where is home? The terrible fury within him screamed. Buried beneath their bombs! Crumbled by their tanks! For the first time since he’d admitted to himself that they’d lost the war, he had a chance to exact revenge. With one well-placed blow, he’d wipe the smirk from Samyaza’s mask. Move quick, move decisively. Pummel him back into the abyss where he belongs. Do it, do it, do it!

  Miquel clamped the manic song behind his lips and closed his eyes. He envisioned Diago and Rafael, whispered their names aloud. Though he knew the thought was selfish, he thought it anyway: If I die, who’ll protect them?

  Samyaza strolled close to the fire of Miquel’s shield. The angel’s taunt nibbled at his resolve. “The Messengers bred you for war, but you’ve let Diago cut off your balls and make you weak. You’re not a soldier anymore. You’ve lost your purpose, Miquel.” Samyaza scoffed. “And to think we used to fear you.”

  The Grigori flicked a single shard into Miquel’s shield. The black ice cut through the light and sliced into Miquel’s chest, reawakening the terrible pain behind his ribs. The agony set off a chain reaction within him, torching his rage into a conflagration of power.

  Miquel realized he’d never make it to the elevator. This exercise was merely a game to the angel.

  Then give him the anguish he deserves.

  Straightening his body, he at last opened his mouth and sang. The notes reshaped the light of his shield into a lance. Ignoring the torment burning within his breast, he twirled the spear, shattering Samyaza’s black knives.

  The Grigori’s eyes widened, first in shock and then in pleasure. He screeched and drew down the night.

  Particles of darkness flew around Miquel, cutting into his skin like grains of sand propelled by a gale. Narrowing his eyes, he focused on the angel’s form, flitting from side to side. Already he felt the rage leaving his body. When it did, he wouldn’t have enough power to challenge the angel.

  How much longer before the Pervitin wears off? Nico said an hour, but how long ago was that?

  Doesn’t matter. I’ve only got one chance to strike Samyaza. Lifting the lance, he charged straight toward the Grigori. At the last moment, he let his lance fly with the speed of light.

  The tip of the spear caught Samyaza’s shoulder. The Grigori howled—not in anguish but in triumph. He jerked the lance free.

  Miquel whirled and ran for the elevator’s metal gate. From the tail of his eye, he glimpsed Samyaza as the angel caught another of the soldiers’ glyphs, one without sharp edges. A ward meant to stun. Samyaza raised his arms and released the sigil.

  Miquel dodged left. Too late.

  The glyph barreled down on him, catching him between his shoulders. He was driven against the wall. The ward slammed the breath from his body.

  Darkness flew into his eyes, dimming his vision, until all that was left were the howls of demented angels ringing in his ears.

  12

  Diago considered Guillermo’s question about the melee in Choral Room Two. Why would singers turn on one another?

  He went to the filing cabinet and opened the top drawer, hoping to find the doctor’s notes, or even a summation of his findings. Instead, he found more files.

  The first one belonged to a woman, and her country of origin was listed as Spain. Alejandra Escobedo.

  Diago’s heart pounded as he opened the file. Two small photographs—one full-face, the other in profile—were stapled beside a blue triangle. If he’d entertained any uncertainties about the name, the woman’s face dispelled any doubts. She was one of Miquel’s milicianos.

  At the triangle’s base was the prisoner’s number. Drawn within the triangle was Guillermo’s seal.

  From his place by the door, Guillermo spoke. “What is it?”

  “One of ours. Alejandra Escobedo.” Diago licked dry lips. “Consigned to the pit.”

  “Keep watch.” Guillermo left the door and took Diago’s place at the filing cabinet. “‘Consigned to the pit.’” He repeated the phrase as he read. “What the hell can that mean?”

  “Dead?”

  Guillermo winced. “Maybe, or maybe it’s code for the prison.”

  Diago wasn’t convinced. “A pit signifies someplace in the ground. Are there others?” Any old ones, like us, in their fifth-born life? But he didn’t ask that question. He didn’t want to know the answer, because then his imagination would put Miquel in this hellhole.

  “Too many.” Guillermo opened the files one by one and tore the sheets free.

  Diago counted at least twelve pieces of paper that represented members of Los Nefilim. Guillermo folded the sheets in half and stuffed them under his shirt.

  Near his heart.

  “Maybe they keep the prisoners nearby.” Guillermo rounded the desk and swept past Diago.

  When he opened the door, the klaxons’ howls filled their ears. The crisis apparently continued unabated.

  Guillermo didn’t check the corridor. He turned right.

  Diago glanced left. So far, they still had this area to themselves. How long their luck would hold, he had no idea. He followed Guillermo. Time ticked away from them with every step.

  Around a sharp corner, the corridor ended abruptly at a door. A handwritten sign indicated the room housed Choral Room 2.

  Guillermo drew his pistol. “The infamous Choral Room Two.” His whisper was barely audible beneath the unrelenting sirens.

  Diago paused beside the door and tried to listen. The scorched stench of dying glyphs stung his nose. Beneath that, he detected a more ominous scent: blood.

  Unable to discern whether the room was occupied or not, he opened the door and entered as if he had every right to be there. The room was empty.

  A string of bare bulbs along the ceiling bathed the chamber in cold white light. Three of the six bulbs were broken.

  It was a recording studio. Sigils crackled along the walls, the lines erratic and disjointed, like they were made by madmen. The fractured songs and broken magic washed over Diago’s flesh and raised the small hairs at the base of his neck.

  None of the glyphs were defensive wards. It’s like they all attacked one another simultaneously.

  Tossed beneath the soundboard were two rolling chairs. The wheels were coated with pieces of hair and scalp.

  Near the ceiling, mounts in opposite corners indicated that speakers had once occupied those spots. Diago edged deeper into the room. Empty tubes of Pervitin crunched under his boots.

  A cracked two-way mirror revealed the studio. The walls were washed in blood spatters. Someone had carried the speakers into the room and smashed them on the floor. Diago suspected that if he went inside, he’d find bits of brain and blood on the speaker cones, too.

  A single microphone hung from the ceiling. The cord had been twisted to form a noose and was wrapped around a young man’s neck.
His toes were mere centimeters from the floor. The body rotated slowly.

  Diago recognized him. Fourteen, the same age as my son, in his firstborn life. He’d smiled for his picture.

  Now his face was blue and he smiled no more.

  Diago turned away.

  “Jesus.” Guillermo squeezed in beside Diago and shut the door. “What the fucking hell happened in here?”

  Retrieving a tube of Pervitin from the floor, Diago held it up. “I think we can confirm our link.”

  Something crashed far overhead. The light bulbs flickered and the corpse in the studio jittered at the end of the cord.

  Diago and Guillermo instinctively ducked. When no further shocks hit the walls, they straightened and looked up at the ceiling.

  “What the hell was that?” Diago murmured.

  “It sounded like an explosion.”

  “Who would attack them? We’ve got no more planes, and the French aren’t in a position to strafe them.”

  Guillermo shook his head. “That wasn’t an attack. Not with just one explosion. Could have even been an accident.”

  “Or it hasn’t bled to this level yet.”

  “Whatever it was, it means our time’s up. We need to find the notebook, our people, and then get them the hell out of here. Let’s go.”

  They quickly retraced their steps. A light shone under the door of the doctor’s office. Diago tried to remember if they’d shut it off when they left. He was certain they had.

  Guillermo’s gaze cut toward the threshold, and though he frowned, he didn’t break his stride.

  The door suddenly opened. A tall blond nefil with pale eyes and a ruddy complexion stepped into the hall. He wore a white lab coat over his uniform and when he spoke, he used German. “You! Why didn’t you take down the body?”

  Guillermo glanced over his shoulder. “Um . . . the alarms. We’re to report to level two.”

  “Three,” Diago corrected him.

  “What?” The doctor turned on Diago.