Los Nefilim Book 4 (32 page)

A few of the mobile patients shuffled behind them.

Guillermo picked up his pace. “Come on, Prieto. You trust me, then I might trust you.”

“I have a higher stake in this than you think,” Prieto retorted. “Candela was . . .” He hesitated, groping for a way to give them a comparable experience. “We were created from the same spark.”

Guillermo jerked the wheelchair to a stop. “What?”

Prieto regained his verve. “Diago is my—­how would you say it?” He pursed his lips. “Brother-­in-­law.” He beamed at Miquel. “That makes you and me—­”

“Nothing,” Miquel snapped. “We are nothing to one another.”

Prieto clucked his tongue. “We didn't get off to a good start, Miquel.” He readjusted his blanket, smoothing his palms over the bag. “But your relationship to Diago makes us . . . kin.” He grinned wetly and displayed a row of sharp teeth.

Miquel backed away from him. “Jesus Christ.”

Through the window behind Miquel, the sigils in the sky flashed. All three of them turned toward the sight. Die Nephilim's glyphs frayed. Mercury turned to pewter which turned blue. One ward flickered like a projectionist's lamp before it died.

“What's happening?” Prieto watched the song die note by note.

Guillermo smiled. “Sister Sofia Corvo prays for you, my friend. She is one of my strongest Nefilim. Her mother is known as
La Belle Sans Merci
.”

Miquel crossed himself and grinned. “Sister Sofia Corvo, hear our prayer.” He went to the window and opened the latch.

As the members of Die Nephilim died, their web of magic grayed to become a thin fog.

Prieto rose from his wheelchair. “Without their song to alert Engel, I can slip away. By the time he finds out that I have left the asylum, Yellowcloud will have the idea and be gone. You have saved us, Guillermo. I could kiss you.”

“No kissing.” Guillermo gripped his arm. “We gave you freedom. You give us Rafael.”

The angel closed his eyes and sent out a questioning song. The notes trickled through the vents and into the courtyard.

Prieto listened intently before he finally nodded. “In the basement corridor that links the campus buildings. He is there. Beneath the ward for the criminally insane.” He opened his eyes and looked to the sky. “Good luck, Guillermo.”

“And to you.” Guillermo turned and followed Miquel, who was already several paces ahead. When he glanced over his shoulder, the window was shut, and the angel was gone.

Miquel reached the stairs first. He pulled on the door. “Locked. Damn it!”

Guillermo nudged him aside. He had yet to encounter a lock he could not break. “Be still. We'll get to him.”

With Die Nephilim's wards gone, Diago's dark green sigils twined through the air alone. The umber vibrations of Amparo's song faded.

Where are you, my friend?
Guillermo turned his attention back to the lock.
And what are you doing?

 

Chapter Six

A
mparo's bones turned to dust. Soft as silt, they covered Diago's feet and whitened his clothes, his hands, his hair. Sweat cleared trails of bone dust from his cheeks. When the bulbs blew out, the impregnable blackness came down and extinguished even the lights of his glyphs.

Diago slammed the ball of his foot on the floor and brought himself to a stop. The only sound was his breathing, harsh and loud in the gloom.

A faint breeze stirred, and with it came the scent of machinery oil and metal—­old and toxic with cordite. The click-­click-­click of scorpion claws on concrete ticked across the floor.

Diago traced a sigil in the air and charged it with his voice. Bright silver light pushed back the darkness. The scorpions tumbled away from the glyph in a writhing mass of bodies.

He was no longer in his cell, but neither was he free. Beyond the edges of his glyph, the scorpions clustered at the foot of a set of narrow stairs, which led up to a catwalk over seven metres off the ground. The catwalk spanned the greater part of the room and ended at an iron stage.

Mounted in the center of the stage was a bronze statue with a bull's head and a man's torso. Twin tanks took the place of lions at either arm of the figure's throne. The wings of planes bearing red swastikas curved upward from the effigy's back. A string of hollowed bombs formed a necklace; machine-­gun turrets fashioned the crown. In the center of the statue's chest was an open door. Once, flames had burned inside the cavity, but it was dark now. The arms were lowered, palms up, ready to accept the offering that had not come.

Through the latticework of the stairs and platform, Diago noted two
‘aulaqs
flanked the statue. He recognized the male that had bitten off his finger, and the one-­armed female that had scarred his face.

“Full circle,” Diago whispered. This was the same room where he had given Alvaro the golem, which Miquel had made to look like Rafael. Oh, he had thought he was cunning with his lies to Moloch. When Alvaro had accepted the golem in lieu of Rafael, Diago had nurtured the hope that his father regretted the past.
But that, too, had been a lie, and the only fool in this room that evening was me.

Neither of the
‘aulaqs
acknowledged his presence.

Diago said, “I've come to see Moloch.”

They didn't answer him. Instead, the scorpions took to the stairs and flowed like a jittering black wave toward the effigy. They gathered in front of the statue and climbed one another until they took the shape of a man.

The female
‘aulaq
cried out a single note and threw a sigil of fire into the effigy's belly. The furnace blazed to life, momentarily blinding Diago. When his vision cleared, he saw it wasn't Moloch who stood before the effigy, but Alvaro.

The strange fires that had burned in his father's gaze last night were gone. Alvaro's irises and pupils had changed again to become the color of smoke and nickel. White eyes, as if he had no eyes at all.

Moloch's eyes.
Diago kept his sigil burning. He didn't move toward the stairs. That would be a deadly mistake.

Alvaro lifted one hand in benediction. Four long fingers, the palms wide and flat, the nails long and sharp.

Moloch's hands.

“Welcome, my son.” Alvaro's razored grin sent a chill down the back of Diago's neck.

Patricide.
That ugly word swam to the top of his thoughts. “I came for Moloch.”

“I
am
Moloch,” said Alvaro.

A flash of anger caused Diago's sigil to burn brighter. “Don't lie to me, Alvaro. Rafael's life depends on me talking to Moloch.”

“Look at me, Diago.” Alvaro's voice carried none of last night's antagonism. “You won last night. You deserve respect for that.”

Careful, he'll tell you what you want to hear.
“Then take me to Moloch.”

“He is here. Look closely.” A scorpion ran down Alvaro's cheek like a shiny black tear.

Moloch's features burned beneath Alvaro's visage. They were like one image superimposed over another. When Diago examined them too closely, his vision blurred. He glanced away, and then back again. Alvaro and Moloch's images coalesced.

Alvaro had indeed become Moloch. They were one.

Diago murmured, “I don't understand.”

Alvaro walked along the catwalk. “Why do you think the mortals are so important to us, Diago?”

The question took Diago off guard. The answer was known to all of the Nefilim. “The daimons and angels feed on their emotions.”

“Correct. We derive our power from the mortals' beliefs. The stronger their belief in us, the more power we wield over them and world events. Yet the mortals have power over us, too. We must be flexible enough to change with their perceptions of us so we can give them what they need—­validation for their existence. It is a mutually agreeable situation for both species.”

Alvaro's eyes flashed as he strolled toward Diago. “Times change. Mortals are changing. Even as we speak, they are realigning their world, adapting new belief systems and merging them with the old. Their religions are becoming more syncretic. What you are witnessing, with my transformation, is the birth of a new god for a new religion.”

Diago stared at his father and waited for some emotion to touch him, but nothing surfaced. Neither surprise, nor fear, nor love came to the forefront of his soul. He was wrung dry by Alvaro and his revelations. This was merely a new game.
And I need to learn the rules fast.
“Will you take a new name?”

“We are Moloch. That is our name. We will simply appear to the mortals in our new form.” Alvaro held out his arms as he reached the top of the stairs. “But we are also Alvaro. And that makes you the son of a god.”

Diago turned his head and spat. “Jesus.”

“Just like him!” Alvaro laughed and performed a slow turn that was a more dignified version of Moloch's capering dance. “So you've summoned us. Tell us what you need, son.”

Diago had no idea how much time had passed. He didn't mince words. “I need a facsimile of the idea for the bomb you gave to Prieto.”

“Explain what has happened.”

“An angel who calls himself Engel is holding Rafael. He wants me to summon Prieto and take the idea from him. If I don't bring Engel the idea within the hour, he will give Rafael the second death.” Diago watched Alvaro's face carefully.

His father's good humor was gone. Three scorpions ran down his cheek. He licked them off his face and scowled.

Good. He took the threat seriously. Or did he? Was this another lie?

It doesn't matter. I'm out of options.
Diago continued. “You and I both know Prieto is not going to give me the idea, so I need a way to trick Engel. Moloch made the original idea. He . . .
you
can create a convincing replica.”

“Become our priest.”

Another flash of anger surged through Diago's sigil. “Are you even listening to me?”

“We are listening. But there is a price, Diago. Nothing is free.” Alvaro gripped the handrails and leaned forward. “Every god needs a priest, and so do we. We need someone to carry our word to the mortals.”

“I am Los Nefilim. I cannot serve two masters. I will not be your priest.”

“Then what do you have to give in exchange for this . . . replica?”

“Your grandson's life. You certainly went to enough trouble to bring him into existence.”

“You're still angry about Candela's rape, aren't you?”

“There was no rape.” The denial came too fast and sharp, because there
was
a rape and he
was
furious.
Why do I allow him to do this me time and time again?
And just as quickly, the answer came to him:
because he knows how to upset me.

Alvaro grinned. “Oh, stop it! Lie to yourself, but don't lie to us. She subverted your will and used your body without regard for your wishes. It was rape by an angel—­the very monsters you have taken an oath to serve.”

He glared at his father. Time to shift Alvaro's game back on him. “What righ­teous indignation from the creature that sent his five-­year-­old son to a whorehouse.”

Alvaro opened his mouth, and then clamped it shut. He cocked his head as if listening to voices only he could hear.

“I need a replica of that idea,” Diago said. “Or your new race of Nefilim will die before it ever begins.”

Alvaro flicked a scorpion to the first step. The arachnid skittered across the floor toward Diago. He ground the creature beneath his heel.

“We will help you,” said Alvaro. “For our grandson's sake.”

“You're not that altruistic.”

“You're right. If you won't serve as our priest, then we want our grandson. We want to raise him as daimon.”

“No.” Diago's heart tore, but he'd rather lose his son forever than see him suffer under Alvaro's tutelage.

Alvaro evaluated Diago carefully before he answered. “Give him to us for a year, then.”

This was too easy. Like handing him the golem, this was all too easy. “A year,” Diago repeated tonelessly. This was what Alvaro had wanted from the beginning. Ask for the impossible and pretend to settle for a lesser price.

Alvaro nodded. “A year of his life. We want him to spend a year with us.”

“No.”

“A mortal year, Diago. Will you have him die the second death because you cannot compromise? Promise him to us for one mortal year.”

The next two years were critical. Rafael had already lost the security of his mother, and had been thrown to a father he barely knew. Any more disruptions in his life could threaten the small headway Diago and Miquel had made to make the child feel secure.

“No.”

The scorpions belied Alvaro's frustration by seething beneath his skin. “Do you really believe that keeping the boy close to Santuari for a few years will help him grow? How can you give him stability, Diago? How can you give your son something you've never known?”

Because I have friends: Miquel, Guillermo, and Juanita.
They were the stability Rafael needed. “Nothing matters other than the fact that I am his father. I did not ask for him, but that does not mean I do not want him.” How could he explain? He'd known from the moment he'd seen his son that they belonged together. Besides, even if he could describe his feelings, Alvaro would never understand.
But he doesn't need to understand. He simply needs to accept that this is true.
“And as his father, I will determine what is best for my son. Just as you did for me.”

It could have been the shadows or the scorpions, but Diago thought he saw Alvaro wince. Could it be?
Is he actually ashamed of his actions, or is that merely what I want to see?

The scorpions beneath Alvaro's skin shifted, distorting his face. This wasn't going the way his father had planned. The meeting wasn't progressing toward either of their goals. And Diago couldn't ignore the passage of time.

“I made a mistake,” he admitted. “I never should have come to you for help.”

“Why?” Alvaro asked. “Why did you come if you thought it was futile?”

“You were my last hope.” Diago laughed, not liking the sound of grief that clung to the sound. “I thought that if I didn't matter to you, maybe your grandson would. I was wrong.”

Alvaro's eyes gleamed like twin moons as he descended the staircase. “I watched over you in your firstborn life.”

Diago noted Alvaro's switch to first person in his speech.
He wants to establish intimacy.

Alvaro continued. “When you were Asaph, I tried to guide you as a father would.”

Maybe that was true, but Diago no longer cared. Alvaro gave too little, too late. “The clock is against me. I must go.” He raised his hand to reignite his sigil.

“Hear me out, and I will give you a replica that will fool an angel.” Alvaro stopped at the edge of Diago's glyph. “Just listen.”

Diago lowered his hand.

“I warned you not to trust Solomon—­that his arrogance would be his downfall. You did not listen. Against my advice, you took Benaiah as your lover, and when Solomon asked you about your liaison with Benaiah, you lied. You said you were close friends. You lived your life as a lie, trying to please both Benaiah and Solomon. When Solomon found the truth, he destroyed you.”

Was it that simple?
No. Nothing was that black and white when it came to relationships, especially when one of the individuals was a king. Diago shook his head.

Alvaro went on, his voice growing louder and echoing through the cavernous room. “Solomon forced you to renounce your love for Ben and take a wife. You were right to avenge yourself on him. You were right, Asaph!”

Lies and revenge never made anything right. Diago knew that now. Ashamed, he recalled his morning thoughts about Alvaro. He remembered how willing he'd been to give his father the second death—­how he had considered manipulating Guillermo and Los Nefilim to help him achieve that goal.

The same desire for vengeance had been his downfall in his firstborn life. How could he say his incarnations had changed him if he was, once again, willing to lie for the sake of revenge?

“No,” Diago said. “When I was Asaph, I had a hand in my own destruction. I made a deal with a devil, and betrayed Solomon to the daimons. They took him from the mortal realm and tormented him for years. All the while, I lived in guilt until I brought him back from the daimonic realms, and restored him to his throne. He never forgave me for that betrayal in our first incarnation, and I . . . I never forgave myself.” Even as he said it, he knew it was true, but the memory of Solomon's rage no longer frightened him. “Asaph and Solomon are dead. I am Diago, and Guillermo is my friend. He accepts me now. Our incarnations have changed us.”