by T. Frohock
Rafael swallowed hard. Say yes, please say yes, and fight him on this.
“No. Of course not. It’s just . . . I thought . . .” Nico glanced at Rafael, clearly uncomfortable and unsure how to proceed. “I’ll take care of him.”
Meaning, he’ll take care of his own best interests. Rafael looked away from the nefil. Walking through the corridors had been hard enough barefoot and ragged. The humiliation of marching naked before the sneering soldiers made him physically ill. I’m going to be sick.
“Good.” Jordi turned to the door. “I have a meeting with Samyaza. Dinner in two hours.”
Nico shook his head. “Three, at least.” This time he didn’t back down at Jordi’s glare. “Look at his face and his wrists. He’ll need stitches. This is Samyaza’s work, isn’t it?” To Rafael, he said, “Take off your shirt.”
Rafael touched the collar of his shirt but made no attempt to remove it.
Jordi grabbed Rafael and slammed him against the wall. Like the punch to his kidneys, the move happened so fast, Rafael didn’t have time to deflect.
He’s old and he’s fast and he’s angry. And now he fully understood Doña Juanita’s reluctance to send him up against such an ancient nefil. Too late. I always understand everything too late.
Jordi wrapped his hand around Rafael’s throat. “You’ll submit yourself to Dr. Bianchi with the same obedience you give to me. Understand?”
Rafael squelched the whine from his voice. “Yes, Señor General.”
Releasing him, Jordi stepped back. “Well?”
Rafael removed his shirt with shaking hands.
Jordi snatched it from him and flung it over Feran’s corpse. “Good.” The word floated through the infirmary as gentle as a kiss. “All right, Nico, you have three hours. Don’t drug him. I want him to feel everything.” He went to the door and left them.
“I’m going to be sick,” Rafael whispered, hating himself for the weakness.
“Quickly.” Nico grabbed his arm and led him to a metal basin.
A hot wave of nausea washed over him, and for a moment he thought he’d faint. The ultimate blink, but I can’t do this anymore. I’m scared. I’m sorry I ever left Paris. Papá and Doña Juanita are right, I’m not ready, I’m not ready, I’m not . . .
He dry-heaved, but there was nothing in his stomach. Staring at the shadowy face in the bottom of the basin—eyes wide with terror and mouth agape—he didn’t recognize himself. Behind him, he heard the lock click into place. He whirled.
Nico came forward and cupped his face. They were close in height and the other nefil smelled nice. He uses the same cologne as Papá. The nostalgia associated with that scent tickled the back of Rafael’s mind with pleasant associations, driving away some of his fear.
“Look at me,” Nico commanded him gently. “Take a deep breath . . . in through your nose and out through your mouth . . . do it . . . do it with me. Inhale. And exhale. Just breathe. That’s it. Calm. Everything is going to be all right. What do your friends call you?”
“Rafael.”
“Good. Keep breathing, Rafael. That’s it. Your color is getting better. Excellent. Are you still feeling sick?”
He was, but he shook his head nonetheless.
“How old are you?”
“Fourteen.”
“Do you know what Jordi intends to do to you?”
Rafael couldn’t bring himself to say the words. “Yes.”
“Have you ever had sex before?”
Rafael felt a hot flush wash over his cheeks. “Yes.”
“Man or woman?”
“Both.”
“Rascal.” A faint smile touched Nico’s mouth and Rafael felt some of the tension leave the room.
Was I wrong about him? Will he help me? He wiped his eyes.
“Let me see your face.” The Italian gently turned Rafael so that his back was to Feran’s corpse.
He’s doing everything he can to calm me. Glad to have Feran’s body behind him, Rafael didn’t resist.
Nico went to the counter and retrieved the alcohol and some cotton. He murmured a soft song until he finished cleaning the wound. Rafael let the other nefil’s voice soothe his tattered nerves.
After he finished his examination, Nico said, “It’s going to hurt, but you’re healing fast. I doubt you’ll even have a scar.” He poured some water in the basin and washed Rafael’s wrists.
“Do I need stitches?”
Nico examined the wounds. “No.”
“Then why did you say I would?”
“To buy us time.” He handed Rafael a bar of rough soap. “Clean yourself up. Be quick.”
Rafael washed the blood from his arms and chest. As he worked, Nico touched his back where Jordi had punched him.
“Does that hurt?”
“No.” Another lie, but his voice was firm.
“It looks like he bruised your kidney. Don’t be frightened if there is a small amount of blood in your urine, but let me know if it goes on more than a few days.” He gave Rafael a towel. When he finished drying himself, Nico tended his wrists.
The pain had become so constant, Rafael ceased to think about it. Nico applied a thick salve over the mangled flesh and bandaged his wrists. “Listen to me very carefully.” He went to a shelf and retrieved a rucksack. “You’re too young for this. He keeps . . .” He seemed to catch himself before he could say more.
“He keeps what?”
Nico didn’t answer. He opened the pack and rummaged through it.
Talk to him. Form some kind of connection. Nico stood between him and Jordi. Tenuous as that barrier was, it was all Rafael had. “Please. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I’m scared.”
Nico closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he seemed to come to a decision. “Listen. This isn’t about you. It’s about how much Jordi hates your father. He believes that every injury, every humiliation he inflicts on you is a strike against Diago’s heart. And he’s probably correct.”
Either Nico Bianchi is the world’s greatest actor, or he truly empathizes with me. Don’t wait too late again. “Miquel said there is an elevator to the surface.”
Nico inhaled sharply. “You’ve seen Miquel?”
“He has twenty-four hours to decipher Carme’s notebook.”
“But he’s alive.”
“He was when I left him.”
Nico’s eyes brightened with something akin to hope. “Okay. We need to get you into a uniform so you don’t attract attention.”
“Jordi said no clothes.”
“Do you want to help me get Miquel out of here?”
Rafael’s heart galloped in his chest. He’s going to help us. “Oh God, yes.”
“Then you have to do exactly as I tell you.”
Rafael hid his fear behind bravado. “Tell me what to do.”
“Help me get Feran out of his pants and boots. His jacket and shirt are here.” Nico pointed to a shelf under the examining table. “Don’t worry about the smell. I can make that go away.”
Rafael just stared at Nico and then gestured at the dead nefil. “You’re not kidding, are you?”
Nico shook his head as he unbuckled the corpse’s belt. “Get his boots.”
He wasn’t kidding. And I don’t have a better idea. Rafael took a deep breath and went to work. They soon had Feran stripped to his underclothes. Nico formed a pale blue sigil like the ones on the walls and sent it over the uniform. The sigil neutralized the rotten flesh odor wafting off Feran’s clothing.
Nico stuffed the uniform and boots into the rucksack. “You’re going to have to leave here dressed as you are. If I put you in Feran’s uniform now, someone will notice.” He wrapped Feran’s pistol in a towel and placed it on top. If anyone opened the rucksack, all they’d see was the towel. Then he slid the two extra magazines into his pockets.
When Nico finished, Rafael asked, “What now?”
“I’m going to get you out of the infirmary and to an office that I keep nearby. Once we�
�re there, you’re going to put on Feran’s uniform before we go after Miquel.” At another cabinet, Nico unlocked the door. He removed four syringes and the same number of vials. With a practiced hand, he filled the syringes and capped them, placing them in one of the rucksack’s outside pockets. They were deep enough to be hidden, but within easy reach.
“What are you doing?” Rafael asked.
“Making a weapon that is as effective as a gun.” Pushing the empty vials to the back of the cabinet, he closed the door and locked it again.
“This is it,” Nico said as he grabbed the rucksack. “I know it’s embarrassing, but trust me. We can’t arouse suspicion. Stay behind me, the same as you did with Jordi. Keep your head down like you’re beaten. Take my lead in all things, but if I start to fight, attack with everything you have. I mean it. Sling your deadliest wards and make sure your shot is true. Do you understand?”
Rafael nodded, not daring to believe they would make it out of the complex.
They left the examining room. Nico locked the door and sang a ward over the latch, fusing it shut. Then they walked back toward the main corridor.
Dr. Jimenez chatted with two heavily armed nefilim in front of an open door.
Nico didn’t slow his pace, or even seem disturbed by the sight of the guards. He nodded to the doctor. “Jimenez.”
“Nico, your escort is here.” His greedy gaze went to Rafael.
Nico’s back stiffened as he came to a halt just beyond the open door.
He wasn’t expecting this. Rafael inched forward until he could see inside the room. Two other doctors sat before a soundboard. A crate of Pervitin was tucked against one wall.
On the other side of a two-way mirror was a group of twenty nefilim wearing German uniforms. They stood in a semicircle and sang into the microphones that hung from the ceiling. Unlike the nefilim in the pit, this chorus willingly carried each note.
Or do they?
Their gazes skittered from corner to corner. Sweat sheened their faces and soaked the high collars of their uniforms.
How long had they been standing there, locked in place?
“Magnificent, aren’t they?” Jimenez whispered to Rafael. “You would look handsome in such a group.” He used the back of his hand to stroke Rafael’s bare shoulder. “Sing for me. Let me hear your voice.”
Rafael gaped at the doctor.
“Don’t you dare sing a note,” Nico snapped at Rafael. He glared at Jimenez. “The generalissimo has taken an interest in this boy. Get another singer from the new recruits.” Without missing a beat, he turned to the guards. “What’s the meaning of this?”
Jimenez answered for them. “The generalissimo would hate for something to happen to his most valued doctor and friend. So he asked Rana and Valdez to remain with you while you treated your patient.”
Nico turned on him with a snarl. “I want you to take your simpering ass back to your job.”
One of the doctors at the soundboard turned his head and snickered.
Jimenez cowered at the malice rolling through Nico’s voice. “My job is to keep the choruses singing.”
“Then do it.” Nico waited until Jimenez slinked back into the control booth and shut the door.
Rana cradled his rifle. “We weren’t expecting you so soon. The generalissimo said you needed three hours.”
“The generalissimo also stipulated that the boy isn’t to be drugged. Do you think I want him shrieking so close to one of the choruses? He’ll be a distraction to them. I’m taking him to the office near the prison. No one will notice his screams there.”
“Then you don’t mind if we follow along?” Rana asked.
“Of course not.” Nico stepped around the nefil. “I’ll need someone to hold him down.”
Satisfied with the explanation, Rana and Valdez fell into step behind Rafael.
Rafael kept to his role and remained submissive, hoping Nico actually had a plan.
18
Diago followed Guillermo into Benito’s office and shut the door. Feeling along the wall, he found the switch and pressed the button. The bulbs overhead flickered to life.
A desk and rolling chair occupied the center of the room. Two filing cabinets stood at attention along the left wall. Behind the desk was a huge map.
Guillermo went to the desk and began opening drawers, rifling through the contents. “No notebook, but there are more requisitions,” he murmured. “These are completed and some are stamped with Jaeger’s seal.”
“That’s damning.” Diago circled the desk and went to the map.
“Not really.” Nonetheless, he withdrew one of the forms and carefully folded it before tucking it into his pocket. “At this point, she can claim she doesn’t know Jordi’s plans, only that she is assisting an ally.” He moved to the next drawer. “But I’ve got names and routes. That’s important.”
“Only if we get out of here alive.” At Diago’s angle, the image on the map initially appeared to be that of a skull. But as he neared, he realized it was the interior of a cavern. Green pins occupied numerous points within a crater.
The map was flanked on the right by an enlarged photograph of the same cavern, and on the left by a typed sheet of paper containing a legend.
“Guillermo,” Diago whispered. “Would you call that a pit?”
Guillermo lifted his head and turned, scowling at the images on the back wall. Reaching into the desk, he retrieved a handheld magnifying glass and approached the photograph. “What the hell are they doing?”
Diago went to the legend and read aloud. “‘Each green pin represents the location of one of Satanael’s generals.’” His stomach cramped with fear. “Satanael. Chief of the Grigori.”
Turning to the map, he counted the green pins. Seventy-two. Seventy-two generals, a legion of angels beneath each general. “Oh Jesus Christ.”
“Come here.” Guillermo pressed his finger on the photo.
Diago reluctantly joined him.
The big nefil passed him the magnifying glass. “Look at this.” He pointed to a specific stone.
Diago moved closer to the photo and lifted the glass. Lying between two large boulders was a person. No, not a person. A four-fingered hand gripped the stone. The individual’s exposed back showed extensive scarring.
Guillermo scratched his chin. “Think back. The portal sigil we passed through to get here. Didn’t it have greenish hues?”
They’d clung like tar to the brighter lines of Jordi’s song. “Yes, they did.” Diago lowered the glass. “Can you handle a Grigori?”
Guillermo tilted his fist so that his signet caught the light. “I can definitely fight one alone, maybe two. But that . . .” He gestured at the map with its numerous pins and shook his head.
Diago returned to the legend. “According to this, they have Samyaza. They don’t mention any others. But they are working to free Satanael next.”
“Because Satanael will make short work of liberating the others.” Guillermo retrieved his lighter and flicked the lid. “When my brother plays with fire, he uses a flamethrower.”
Diago tossed the magnifying glass to the desk. “Do you still think you can save Jordi?”
“I never thought you and I would be friends again, yet here we are, having adventures.” In spite of his jocular tone, Guillermo’s eyes glittered dangerously.
“That’s not a fair comparison.”
“Maybe not,” Guillermo conceded. “But I believe there is a way to reach Jordi. I’ve just got to find it.”
Diago couldn’t keep the sarcasm from his voice. “Maybe Samyaza can mediate the discussion.”
“Now you’re just being an asshole.” Guillermo tapped the map. “Do you know what my brother is about to unleash on the mortal realm?”
Diago didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
The soft click of Guillermo’s lighter popped twice. “Once we’ve secured Carme’s notebook, we have to find that cavern.”
“And then what?”
�
�Bury the Grigori again. Look here.” He traced his finger over the higher regions of the caverns. “See the holes? One well-placed sigil will bring all that down on the pit.” He pocketed his lighter and started for the door. “Let’s see if we can find some stairs.”
With a final uneasy glance at the map, Diago followed Guillermo back to the corridor. The klaxons finally ceased to scream. The quiet was somehow worse.
They set off again, finding their way back to the main corridor. A group of soldiers returned from the upper levels. Diago spied Espina among them.
Christ, what shitty luck. Thus far, they’d bluffed their way past other soldiers by simply walking as if they knew where they were going. They’d never fool Espina.
Diago nudged Guillermo toward a smaller passage to the left of the main corridor. The area wasn’t as well maintained as the other halls they’d found. Patches of plaster crumbled onto the spongy wooden floor. A long handrail was bolted to the wall and ran the length of the passage.
No offices lined the walkway—just meters and meters of emptiness that left Diago feeling more exposed than he liked. For the first time since they’d started their reconnaissance, he looked over his shoulder more than once as they traversed the hall. The smell of rot permeated the damp air.
They finally reached a stairwell going upward. At the next landing, they found an alcove to their left and a long corridor that extended into darkness to their right. Directly across from the landing was a second stairwell that descended to a steel door.
Inside the recessed area was an ugly guard, who straddled a camp chair. Greasy cards showed a game of solitaire well in progress on the folding table.
“Hey!” The nefil looked up from his game.
Diago’s heart kicked in his chest. He rested his palm on his holster in what he hoped the other soldier would perceive as a casual gesture.
The nefil played a card before he set the pack aside. “What was all the noise about?”
Diago relaxed somewhat. It’s a lonely post and he’s looking for news. “Don’t know. We were busy securing a portal.”
“The one that bastard Feran came through?”
The guard suddenly had Guillermo’s undivided attention. “The very one.”