Los Nefilim Book 4 (2 page)

Doña Rosa continued. “The younger man claimed to be your brother.”

Diago chose his words carefully. “I had many
brothers
. I was raised in an orphanage.” It was a convenient lie, one he had used often enough. In truth, the woman who had called herself his aunt had sold him to slavers sometime early in the twelfth century, because she hadn't wanted another mouth to feed. He'd been five years old when she abandoned him. She had promised that if he did what he was told, he would be fed. In his ignorance, he thought she planned to come back for him at the end of the day. He never saw her again, and his hard-­won meals soured in his stomach. Sometimes it was better to starve.

José smirked. “I hope it's a nice gift to make up for leaving you there.”

Doña Rosa tossed José a nasty glare before she turned back to Diago. The pity in her eyes was not insincere, and Diago felt somewhat chastised for his earlier thoughts about her. She was not a bad woman.

“I am so sorry,” she said. “I had no idea.”

No, not a bad woman. And yet he found her compassion harder to bear than José's insults. More than ever, he wanted to be with Miquel. “If you will excuse me, Doña Rosa.”

“Of course. If you need anything—­”

“I'm fine. Thank you.”

She hesitated, and for one frightening moment, Diago was certain that she intended to hug him.

“I'm fine,” he insisted, hoping to neutralize any maternal urges she might act upon.

“Very well then, Señor,” she murmured, and bowed her head to him. “Good night.” She stepped back into her apartment and shut the door.

The low staccato of her rebuke burst like machine-­gun fire and reached through the walls into the hallway. José's protests were barely audible. He wouldn't raise his voice to his mother, but later in the evening, he would drink himself into enough courage to beat a prostitute.

It disgusted Diago, knowing that José would somehow blame him even as he abused a young woman. Yet there was nothing he could do about it. He had more pressing concerns. Someone had found him, knew his name, and the apartment he called home. The fact that the individual came in the guise of a father Diago had never known did nothing to ease his nerves—­if anything, it only increased them. As much as they distrusted him, none of Guillermo's Nefilim dared ridicule him with such a charade.

Diago hurried up the stairs and forced his key into the lock with a shaking hand. Inside, he shut the door and bolted it. The heavy shadows of the furniture loomed in the pale gray light leaking through the windows.

The easy chair Diago had claimed as his own sat in the corner that faced the door. A low table squatted before the chair and was strewn with musical scores. Diago's guitar leaned against the wall, stored neatly in its case. Miquel's guitar rested on the short sofa beside the chair.

“Miquel?” Diago called softly, not really expecting an answer. When Miquel was home, the rooms overflowed with his presence. This silence was heavy enough to be felt.

A low hum of panic seeded itself in Diago's heart. He closed the curtains in each of the windows, his movements slow and deliberate. He paused before the glass and looked down into the fog. Nothing moved, and even if it did, he would be hard put to see it. As he walked through the rooms, he noted the wrongness of the scene.

Miquel's empty guitar case was still on the bed beside the clothes he had selected for the evening. His hat and coat hung by the door. Wherever he'd gone, he had not intended to be gone long.

Had he seen the visitors? Diago castigated himself for not asking Doña Rosa when the alleged father and brother had arrived. It was possible they'd left minutes ago and that Miquel had gone out to follow them. Yes, that was plausible. In the fog, Diago might not have seen them. Miquel could be back any moment.

Diago clutched the package against his stomach and told himself these comfortable lies, hoping they were true. A half-­empty cup of coffee sat on the dining table next to the day's newspaper. Diago touched the cup. It was cold. His hope tumbled into a pit of black thoughts he didn't want to indulge.

Of course, maybe the cold cup meant nothing. Miquel was often distracted and sometimes left his plates behind for Diago to wash and put away. It was one of his more irritating habits: a forgotten sandwich left to draw flies, coffee grounds littered around the pot, a half-­empty mug turned cold by neglect, because he had left in a hurry, had not even taken the time to write a note, because he had not intended to be gone long . . .

Keep telling yourself that, Diago.

“Where are you, Miquel?”

In answer, the package grew heavy in Diago's hand. He carefully placed the box on the scarred tabletop beside Miquel's mug and sat. His mouth was dry as he peeled away the paper to reveal a mirrored box.

A richly engraved calling card had been carefully placed on the lid. The raised script said “Beltran Prieto.” The name meant nothing to Diago. He turned the card over and examined every ridge. The paper carried the faintest odor of rosewater, but there was nothing distinctive about the scent. It could have just as easily come from Doña Rosa. Diago set the card aside and turned his attention to the box.

The casket was made of mirrored panels, and on the lid, a triptych had been etched in the glass. Diago went to the table in front of his easy chair and rummaged through the sheet music until he found a brass medallion that fit comfortably in the palm of his hand. It had been a gift from Miquel sometime in the late seventeenth century. He'd thought the magnifying glass concealed within the brass case to be most cunning.

Diago returned to the table. He pivoted the glass free of the cover in order to enlarge the tiny scenes. The detail of the relief was amazing, and executed with the skill that only a supernatural creature could possess.

The first panel showed the silhouette of a woman poised to dance, her arms raised over her head, her face turned upward as if looking at the sky. She was dressed in rags that rose behind her, which gave her the illusion of having wings. The ethereal figure seemed to twist and turn in the light. Around her throat was a small serpent with golden scales.

Chills rippled down Diago's back. He had known only one Nefil who could evoke such a pose while dancing, a Gitana named Candela.

She had owned a little yellow snake with eyes the color of blood.

Diago had blocked the memory of her from his mind, partly from shame and partly from guilt. They had met in the slums of Triana where the music was deep and wild, like a cry in the night, and had known one another as Nefilim the moment their eyes met.

Beneath the open stars, she had whispered to him that she alone possessed the secret to a song that would end the conflict between the daimons and angels. She promised to teach him, and he, in his lust for peace, had believed her.

He had gone there to search for a song, and instead he found her.

Acutely aware of the sound of his breathing, Diago steadied the magnifying glass and moved to the next panel. The second scene showed two figures dancing together. The ­couple's features were indistinct. They were shadow-­­people who embraced one another beneath a frosted moon. The golden snake encircled their throats like a lemniscate, the symbol for eternity, and bound them together face-­to-­face. Diago recalled the supple scales against his skin. Once more, he tasted Candela's mouth on his and thought of anisette and honey and almonds.

She had wanted to take him to her bed. She needed his dreams, she said, the whisper of his darkness. His father had been a Nefil, the son of a daimon, and his mother had been an angel, who had taken her mortal form to give birth to him. He was the only Nefil who carried the power of both angel and daimon in his magic. Candela insisted that his unique heritage gave him the ability to understand the song, and no other Nefil would do.

He had objected that he belonged to another, yet his protests had sounded feeble even to his own ears. The lure of the song proved too hard to resist. If peace came to the angels and the daimons, then Los Nefilim would be free like the mortals, who lived their lives as they chose. No longer would they be forced to exist in shadow-­armies, always looking over their shoulders, distrusting all whom they met. Infidelity to Miquel seemed a small price to pay for such a song.

Throughout their lovemaking, the little yellow snake had wound itself into her hair, then curled around her throat and mesmerized Diago with its ruby eyes. Candela's assurances had been low and gentle, like the sweep of the desert wind, or perhaps a snake, burnished by the sun. She had seduced Diago into her bed with a tongue filled with lies.

Humiliation flushed his cheeks. He clenched the brass case in a white-­knuckled grip. For days he had submitted to her attentions, and done all that she asked without question. He recalled the smell of the carnations she kept by her bed, the odor of rotten wood, and the sharp hard scent of tin.

And then, one morning, she was gone. The little yellow snake lay dead on the windowsill, and Candela had disappeared as if she had never lived. Too late, Diago realized the serpent had been an enchantment. When Candela had achieved all that she desired, the spell broke, and the snake had died.

She had made a fool of him. Ashamed of his culpability, he had never spoken of the tryst, not with Guillermo, and especially not to Miquel. Such a betrayal would have broken his heart. How did one explain an allure such as Candela's, one that made Diago go against his very nature? The truth was complicated, and he had no faith in his ability to convey the misery he'd felt when he realized what he'd done. So he had hidden his sin behind lies of omission, because lies were easier.

Unless the truth drove them into the light.

Diago wiped his sweaty palm across his thigh before he continued. The third panel showed a child around the age of five. A heavy mane of hair framed a face just beginning to lose its baby fat, to take the angular form of a youth. He stood with his arms raised over his head in the male form of Candela's pose—­a boy pretending to be a man. Like Candela, his clothes weren't much more than rags, and around his throat was a little yellow snake with eyes the color of carmine.

Diago frowned. He didn't remember a child.

I will give you a song,
Candela had said. She'd held Diago's face between her palms and pressed her mouth against his.
With your dreams and the whisper of your darkness.
She had kissed him again and took him down beneath a velvet moon.

Diago put his hand over his mouth and stared at the boy etched in glass. The child's features were as indistinct as the other figures on the triptych. Yet no lack of detail could hide the bold thrust of his chin, the tilt of his hips. He exhibited an unconscious grace of form . . . which Diago recognized as his own.

“A son?” He dropped the magnifying glass. It clattered to the tabletop, the glass pivoting halfway back into the case like an eye that wanted to close against the truth. Diago's heart rapped staccato beats as his gaze wandered again to the snake around the boy's neck.

“This can't be.” Maybe he was mistaken. It was possible that he read far more into this triptych than was true. Surely if he had fathered a child, Candela would have found him before now.

He picked up the magnifying glass again. In the first panel, etched within a miniature scroll beneath Candela's feet were the years 1895-­1929.

“Jesus Christ.” If the dates meant anything at all, Candela was dead. “And if Candela is dead, where is my son?”

Diago glared at the calling card that bore Beltran Prieto's name. The ink bled into the fibers of the paper, and the lines eddied like ripples across a pond. Prieto's name disappeared as the ink took the shape of an hourglass, the sand rapidly running out. In a series of seemingly random swirls, the lines formed new words:
He needs you. Come alone or not at all.

Diago reached for the card, but before he touched it, the words dissolved and spelled out the name Beltran Prieto. He withdrew his hand.

What did that mean? An hourglass? And who needed him? His son, or Miquel? Or both?

The answer lay within the box. He knew that now like he knew with a terrible certainty that Miquel had not left to follow the two strangers who had brought this tainted gift. Miquel was not coming back.

The room felt cold in spite of the radiator ticking against the wall. Diago's gaze fell to the casket's latch. He hummed a low and deadly note, and parted the air with waves of sound. The timbre of his voice took the form of silver light and hung suspended over the box. Diago used his finger to manipulate the waves into a sigil of protection. Moving with confidence, he quickly traced four vertical and horizontal stripes in the air. He surrounded the lines with a circle that ended in an elaborate tail.

The glyph spun lazily and covered his hands as he lifted the lid. Inside, settled atop a bed of white silk, was a ring that Diago had given Miquel. The wedding band was an exact match to the one that Diago wore on a chain next to his heart.

A cold wash of fear flooded his stomach and spread down into his thighs. Did Miquel know about Candela? Had Beltran Prieto told him? Suddenly, Diago saw nothing but the hurt on Miquel's face. The image settled against his mind like a blow.

Diago took the ring from the box and slid it onto his index finger.
Calm down and think.
He couldn't imagine Miquel taking off his ring and placing it in the mirrored box, no matter how angry he might be about Diago's adultery. That simply wasn't his way. Miquel was too emotional for such a cold good-­bye.

Diago examined the silk within the box. In one corner was splash of blood. Diago licked his finger and touched the blood. He lifted his finger to his tongue and tasted silk and parchment and the bitterness of rosemary. Diago knew the taste of his lover's blood. Miquel was hurt.

He pressed the ring to his mouth. The metal was cold against his lips. Miquel had not left him, not voluntarily. Perhaps even now he was with Diago's son, but where?