Los Nefilim Book 4 (36 page)

Vales accepted the answer with a nod, and turned to converse with Santiago. Just beyond the spot where Vales and Santiago talked, a scorpion scuttled along the sidewalk.

Diago tracked the arachnid with his gaze. The scorpion ran to a column where it joined its mates. The scorpions took the form of a man.

Alvaro.
A pool of ice formed in Diago's stomach.

Alvaro smiled at Diago, but his predatory gaze was on Rafael.

Diago shielded his son's body with his own.

“Are you all right?” Miquel asked.

“What is it, Papa?” Rafael tried to look over Diago's shoulder, but he covered the boy's face with his hand.

“Let's get out of here,” Diago whispered.

Miquel frowned and studied the arcades.

Diago looked back again.

Alvaro was gone.

 

Chapter Eight

G
uillermo didn't ask any more questions about Diago's descent into the daimonic realm, and Diago offered no further explanations. Instead, Guillermo and Miquel spent the ride telling him what they'd learned from Prieto, and in return, Diago told them about Amparo.

By the time Guillermo parked the truck beside their house, Diago was numb. Rafael dozed with his head against Diago's chest. In spite of his coat, and the combined warmth of Guillermo, Rafael, and Miquel, Diago remained cold.

Miquel opened the passenger door and slid out. “Give him to me.” He reached across the seat.

Diago shifted his weight until Miquel could reach Rafael. Once he was certain that his lover had a good grip on the boy, he joined Guillermo beside the truck.

Guillermo's hand landed on Diago's shoulder. “Listen,” Guillermo said. “Take this week off and just rest. We'll talk about your studio next week.”

“What studio?” Diago asked.

“I need you to start work.”

“Work on what?”

“We need the Key, Diago. You have it.” He touched Diago's chest with one blunt finger. “Locked inside of you.”

Of course. Time to earn my keep. Alvaro is right, everything has a price. For Guillermo, it is the Key. And for the Key itself . . .
To search for that chord meant remembering secrets long past. Diago wasn't sure he wanted to resurrect those days.

Miquel waited by the front door, holding Rafael, who was just beginning to wake. “We can talk about this later, can't we?”

“Sure.” Guillermo gave Diago's shoulder a squeeze. “Come to my house on Monday. I've had some plans drawn up, and we can go over them together. We'll see which ones you like.”

Diago nodded, afraid to speak. He didn't trust the words that might spill over his lips.

Mercifully, Guillermo said nothing else. He lit a cigar and started back down the road toward his villa.

Diago couldn't stand it anymore. “Don't you want to know?”

Guillermo stopped, but he didn't turn around. “Know what?”

“Don't you want to know what happened with Alvaro and Moloch?”

Guillermo smoked. Diago counted eight puffs before the big Nefil finally spoke. “No.” He turned and fixed his fiery gaze on Diago. “You'll do what's right. Even if you don't believe in yourself, I do.” Before Diago could say anything else, Guillermo walked away.

Small fingers brushed Diago's palm. He started and looked down to see Rafael blinking sleepily by his side.

“Come inside, Papa. Someone fixed our door and cleaned our house.”

Diago turned around to find Miquel gone. He took Rafael's hand and led the child inside, where he found that order had been restored to their little home. Miquel had tossed his jacket over the back of the couch. Diago retrieved it and hung it by the door along with his own coat and Rafael's little jacket.

Miquel emerged from the kitchen with a bottle of
orujo
and a ­couple of glasses. He poured the brandy and gave a glass to Diago. “You look like you need a drink.”

Diago downed the shot and felt the brandy's warmth spread across his chest. “Who was here?”

“Juanita left a note on the kitchen table. Along with dinner.”

Diago followed his lover into the kitchen. Bowls and platters were spread on their small table. There was enough food to carry them through the next two days. Diago stood in the kitchen door, his glass forgotten in his hand.

Miquel smiled and came to him. He touched the corner of Diago's eye. “What is this?”

Diago wiped the tear away. “It's the light. It's too bright.”

Rafael placed his satchel on the coffee table and joined them in the kitchen. “I could use a drink, too,” he announced.

Miquel laughed. “How about some hot chocolate for you?” He kissed the side of Diago's mouth before he went to the stove.

Diago sat at the table and uncovered the still-­warm dishes. A bulging envelope rested beside one bowl. He turned the thick paper over and saw his name written on one side. He'd seen this script on one other occasion.

“What's that?” Rafael climbed onto his chair and swung his leg. The now familiar thump of his heel striking the table leg provided their backbeat.

“Stop kicking the table,” Diago murmured absently. The paper reminded him of the calling card Prieto had left in the mirrored box in what seemed like so long ago.
But it was only a month ago.
Yet it felt like years. Still, Diago couldn't dispute that the handwriting on this envelope was the same. “Prieto.”

Rafael ceased to kick the table.

Miquel turned from the stove to see. “What?”

“Not what, who.”

Miquel shut off the stove and came to stand behind Diago. Placing his hands on Diago's shoulders, he massaged him gently. “Open it.”

Diago slid his thumb beneath the seal. Inside was the magnifying glass he had thrown at Engel, nothing else. Diago pivoted the glass free of its brass case. The magnifying glass had been removed and in its place was a mirror.

Etched into the glass was 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 and gave her the illusion of wings. The ethereal figure seemed to twist and turn in the kitchen's light. Around her throat was a small serpent with ruby eyes and golden scales. Beneath her feet was a scroll with the dates 1895-­1929 etched into the glass.

Crimson and silver light bled across the kitchen floor. The rays gathered together and took the shape of the tall thin angel that called himself Prieto. The colors of his song leaked from his wounds like multihued ribbons. The right side of his face was burned red and tight. His long silver hair was matted with blood and shadowed his eyes, great crimson orbs shot through with streams of silver. Pain rendered his gaze feral and bright.

Rafael left his chair and came to Diago's side. He pressed himself close against Diago and watched Prieto with wide eyes.

Diago put his arm around his son, wondering if this day would ever end.

Prieto straightened and snuffed a smoldering patch of fire on his coat. “Don't be frightened, child. This is what happens when angels war.”

“You should stop fighting,” Rafael whispered.

Prieto laughed, and the sound drove their fear from the room. “Such good advice.” He came to the table and sat on Miquel's chair. Gesturing at the etching, he said, “Her earthly name was Candela Maria Cortés Prieto.”

Diago felt Miquel's fingers tighten on his shoulders.

Prieto didn't notice Miquel's sudden tension, or if he did, he didn't remark on it. Instead, he winked at Rafael. “When you are older, I will sing you her angelic name. She loved you very much. Engel murdered her when she refused to tell Prince Aker where she had hidden you. Engel gave her the second death.” Prieto's lower lip trembled. “I have avenged her.”

Diago finally found his voice. “You gave Engel the second death?”

Prieto pursed his lips and nodded. “Sariel sanctioned the death sentence.” He reached out to touch Diago's wrist, but Diago moved his hand out of the angel's reach. “I just wanted to see that my nephew is loved.”

“Now you've seen.” Diago gently pivoted the glass back into the brass case. “Get out.”

Prieto swallowed hard before he continued. “Teach him how to love, Diago. Don't let him live in fear of gods or mortals or angels or daimons. And definitely do not let him fear death. I beg you. Teach him how to love.”

From their bedroom, the mantel clock chimed the half hour. As if on cue, Prieto rose and went to the backdoor. He hesitated but didn't turn around. “I am sorry, Diago. For what that's worth. I am sorry for how you were used and that you were hurt.”

The words fell like shivers in the air, and Diago couldn't tell if Prieto meant it or not. Nor did he care. He said nothing to absolve the angel of his sister's act, let alone his own. Forgiveness was a destination far beyond him at the moment. He merely stared at the table and waited for the angel to leave.

Prieto's colors bled from their kitchen and disappeared. Outside, the sun crept from behind the clouds and splashed golden light across their kitchen floor.

When he was sure the angel was gone, Diago pressed the magnifying glass into his son's small hand. “This,” he said before he paused and cleared his throat. “This is a very important gift. Miquel picked out the glass for me many years ago. And it has been touched by daimons and by angels, so like you and me, it is augmented with the magic of both. And here”—­he pivoted the mirrored glass to reveal the etching of Candela—­“is your mother, who must not be forgotten. I'm giving it to you, because it's been touched by all of us.”

Rafael held the brass case between his palms. “It's cold.”

“Most symbols are,” Miquel said as he knelt beside the boy.

“But we're not a symbol,” said Rafael. “We're a family.”

“A family of bears,” Miquel growled and lifted Rafael into the air.

The child squealed as Miquel tucked him under one arm. He grabbed the chair Prieto had vacated and placed it in front of the stove. “Trade me.” He offered Rafael a wooden spoon and held out his hand for the magnifying glass.

Rafael considered Miquel for a moment, and then he placed the brass case in his pocket. Snatching the spoon from Miquel's hand, Rafael gave him a closed fist salute.

“Excellent!” Miquel turned on the burner. “Stir your milk while I find some chocolate.”

Their voices faded into the background. On the tabletop, where Prieto had folded his hands, a damp circle stained the wood.
Like a teardrop,
Diago thought.

As he watched, a sphere rose from the table's surface. The bubble grew until it was the size of a marble filled with streaks of crimson and silver. Diago reached out and caught the angel's tear before it could roll to the floor.

Still warm with Prieto's love, the stone pulsed softly against Diago's palm. He wasn't sure why, but he felt that Prieto had left it for him. Maybe he was truly sorry for the way the angels had used Diago.

Maybe.

Miquel returned to Diago's side. Frowning at the stone, his dark eyes troubled, he traced the vein in Diago's wrist until he touched his palm. “Will you keep it?”

“Maybe.” Diago kissed Miquel's knuckles and watched his son.

Rafael turned and grinned, and Diago smiled back. Maybe the angels were sorry, but Diago wasn't. Not anymore. He had his family, his family of bears, and together, they would roar.

END

 

Acknowledgments

A
lways and always to my family, first and foremost. For my husband, Dick Frohock, who has to share me with so many ­people, and for my beautiful daughter, Rhi, and her husband, Andrew Hopkins. I couldn't do this without their love and support.

Special thanks continues to go to Josep M. Oriol for reading each and every rough drafts and helping me with terminology and places in Barcelona. If there any mistakes regarding history, street names or metro stops, those mistakes are mine and mine alone. When in doubt, I made it up.

For the usual suspects who read the manuscripts, sometimes two and three times, and caught my many errors: Anne Lippin, Peter Cooper, Glinda Harrison, and Justin Landon for all of their outstanding comments and guidance.

Thanks to Mark Lawrence, ML Brennan, Courtney Schafer, Mazarkis Williams, Alex Bledsoe, Michael R. Fletcher, and Helen Lowe for their support.

To the most marvelous Mia for your fabulous help with cover copy. Your clear insight and excellent advice made a seemingly insurmountable job fun!

To my dear friend Lisa Cantrell for all of our Friday afternoons.

I'd also like to thank the unsung hero of all three of these novellas: Jenny Klion, my copy editor. If you found grammatical error, it's because I didn't heed her advice.

Special thanks goes to David Pomerico for his excellent editorial direction on all of the stories in this series: I'm very lucky to have such an excellent editor.

Most special thanks to Marlene Stringer, my literary agent, who keeps telling me to write something new, and so I will.

And thanks goes to the most important ­people of all: you, the reader. Without you, all of this wouldn't be half as much fun as it is.

 

 

About the Author

T. FROHOCK
has turned her love of dark fantasy and horror into tales of deliciously creepy fiction. She currently lives in North Carolina where she has long been accused of telling stories, which is a southern colloquialism for lying. Check out more of her works and news at
www.tfrohock.com
.

Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at
www.hc.com
.

  

Also by T. Frohock

Los Nefilim

In Midnight's Silence: Los Nefilim: Part One

Without Light or Guide: Los Nefilim: Part Two

The Second Death: Los Nefilim: Part Three

Hisses and Wings: A Novelette, by Alex Bledsoe and T. Frohock

(featuring Bledsoe's Tufa and Frohock's Los Nefilim)

The Broken Road: A Novella

Miserere: An Autumn Tale