The Second Death (8 page)

Rafael took a deep breath and looked at the picture. The lines shifted and changed shape again. The caricature of Miquel walked to their truck and got inside. He held Papa's coat close to his chest and spoke to the driver. Rafael withdrew a pencil from his satchel, pressed the tip against the paper, and closed his eyes. His magic guided his hand. When he looked down, he saw he had drawn Don Guillermo.

Don Guillermo and Miquel were coming.

They haven't forgotten us.

The drawing blurred, and when Rafael blinked, two tears struck the page. Straight lines curled and became a tangled head of hair. Ysabel sat in front of a window and played her guitar. Her mouth moved in a song, and as Rafael's heart grew warm, he saw Doña Juanita sitting behind Ysabel, singing along. He felt their love rise up from the paper and into his soul.

Los Nefilim were looking for them. They weren't alone. All he had to do was be quiet and wait.
And help Papa.
Yes.

Rafael wiped his eyes and went to work. He guided his snake over the picture of the kitten, Ghost. Diaphanous as her name, Ghost came to life and stepped off the page. She was little more than a white shadow with a silent cry, but Mamá had often said that small magic was better than no magic at all.

Ghost nudged his hand, and he felt the tickle of her spirit breath.

“Find my papa,” he whispered. “Bring him to me.”

Ghost opened and closed her mouth. Instead of going to the grill, she turned and scampered deeper into the vent. Rafael held the picture of his scattered family and listened to the hospital staff as they passed his hiding place. He made himself small and mouse-­quiet and waited.

His mamá had left him in this horrible place, but his papa would come for him. He had promised.
He
will
come. I am not alone.

 

CHAPTER 5

G
uillermo stopped the truck at the intersection near La Sagrada Família's impressive eastern façade. An attractive woman wearing a fox stole sauntered toward a group of construction workers. She paused and spoke to one of the men. He pointed at the church's entrance as five of his coworkers came to offer their assistance as well. She gave them all a dazzling smile and left them gaping in her wake.

“Why are we sitting here?” Miquel asked.

“It's a stop sign,” Guillermo said as he gave the woman's ass a lingering gaze. As Solomon, he would have found a way to justify the pursuit of a woman like that. Guillermo, on the other hand, might give her beauty an appreciative glance, but he wanted no one other than his Juanita. She filled his days and understood him better than any of his Nefilim. He would do nothing to jeopardize his life with her.

Diago is right. Our incarnations do change us,
he mused as he eased the truck across the intersection. Now if he could just get the rest of his Nefilim to accept Diago the same way Guillermo did, he might have some peace within his ranks.

Miquel noticed the woman, too. “You were looking at her ass.”

Guillermo drove past the church's western façade, which was nothing more than a construction site. “Are you jealous?”

Miquel snorted.

“You're not so innocent,” Guillermo said as they reached the industrial district. “I've seen you giving other men that look. Diago notices, too.”

“Diago doesn't get jealous.”

“Diago doesn't say anything. He gets this”—­Guillermo flicked his finger next to his temple—­“spark in his eye when you do that.”

Another snort.

“You watch him next time. I'm warning you. One of these days, he's going to say something when he catches you ogling another man.”

“Do you think he'll ever be that comfortable with our relationship?”

Guillermo sighed at the note of hope in Miquel's voice. “Little steps, Miquel, little steps. He's wearing his ring.” He slowed the truck in front of his warehouse. “For Diago, that's a leap.”

The observation won him a wan smile. “You're right.”

“Business, my friend. Focus on the business at hand.” Guillermo parked beside the curb. “What do you see?”

Miquel leaned forward and looked through the windshield. In the distance, the vibrations of a domed song encompassed the asylum.

“Was that here yesterday?” Miquel asked.

“No.” Guillermo reached into his pocket and withdrew his lighter. He rubbed his thumb over the protective sigil Juanita had burned into the metal before she'd given it to him. “And it takes more than five Nephilim to make a web like that.”

Before they could examine the song more closely, a woman emerged from the warehouse. She wore a white blouse beneath her jacket. Her trousers were loose, and her shoes were soft soled and made for stealth. Dark brown curls escaped her bun and clung to her pale forehead, framing a face that projected the cunning of a cat. When she recognized the truck, she withdrew her hand from her coat pocket—­no doubt where she kept her gun.

Miquel was closest to the curb. He rolled down his window as she approached them.

“Sofia Corvo, my little angel of death.” Guillermo grinned. Suero hadn't fooled around. Like the female angels, the female Nefilim possessed stronger magic than the males. They were also some of his most vicious killers. God, he loved them all, but Sofia Corvo was one of his favorites.

Sofia folded her arms on the door and looked inside. “We saw them go in about ten minutes ago. Diago and Engel in one car, Rafael and Garcia in the other.”

Guillermo tapped the steering wheel with his index finger. “How many do you have with you?”

“Twelve.”

“Who?” Guillermo asked.

She named them—­all female Nefilim. With a coy smile, she said, “We will make fetching nuns.”

Miquel laughed, but there was no mirth in the sound. He was itching to move forward. Guillermo felt his need like goose bumps crawling on his flesh.

Or maybe it was the song that caused Guillermo's agitation. Die Nephilim's chant was all bass and baritone, not a female voice in the mix. The music was tightly constrained and performed in perfect unison, with no extemporaneous movements whatsoever.

It wasn't the first time Guillermo had witnessed their magic. Their techniques were the opposite of those employed by Los Nefilim, who sang their spells with wild abandon, often improvising, playing off one another's strengths and weaknesses. Male and female worked together to achieve melodies and pitches that only one gender could never achieve.

Sofia noticed the direction of his gaze. “See how tight the sigils are? In order to do that, Die Nephilim must all be gathered in one area, led by a conductor. Find one—­find them all.”

Guillermo trusted her judgment. “Put a stop to that song.”

“You want them all dead?” She picked at a broken fingernail.

“Bring me one for questioning if you can. Don't jeopardize yourself or your sisters.”

“What about the traitors?” She spat into the gutter.

A cold wave of rage rolled through his stomach. “I want as many of them alive as possible.”

Sofia bared her teeth with a smile that made Guillermo think of sharks. “I'll take them to western
finca
.”

The
finca
was an old stone house on a secluded section of his western fields, far from his house and his daughter. In that isolated field, the screams of the interrogated couldn't be heard in his home.

He flicked the lid of his lighter just once, like the sound of a gavel pronouncing judgment. “Do it. I'll meet you there once we've secured Diago and Rafael.” With a quick nod at the bag, he said to Miquel, “Give it to her.”

Miquel handed her the bag of ammunition.

In a rare display of affection, she patted Miquel's arm. “Hold tight. We'll get them back.”

Miquel nodded and gave her a salute, which she returned with a gleam in her eye. She retreated into the warehouse. Guillermo couldn't be sure, but he thought he detected a bounce to her step. Nothing pleased Sofia Corvo more than a bloodbath.

He pulled away from the curb, and reminded himself to give Suero some time off as a reward. Sofia might not fully trust Diago yet, but she respected his oath to Los Nefilim, and Guillermo had no doubt that Suero had summoned others with the same deference to oath over personalities.

Of course, like Diago, Suero had suffered from the Nefilim's distrust. Born of one of the minor spirits, his song was good, but not as strong as the higher-­born members. Garcia and others had questioned the assignment, worried that a lesser Nefil coordinated their actions, but Guillermo had stood by his choice. A Nefil with a powerful song was invaluable, but a Nefil with a sharp mind was just as treasured. He assigned them according to their talents. So far, whether from gratitude or allegiance, Suero had yet to let him down.

Then where did I go wrong with Garcia?
He chewed the thought like a cigar, but couldn't identify a specific clue for the inspector's betrayal. Not only why, but when?
Who else have I missed?

“What are you thinking?” Miquel watched him with eyes blacker than the storm hovering over them.

“When did Garcia begin working with the Germans?”

Miquel shook his head. “I have no idea.”

“Guess.”

“When Diago took his oath?”

“You think all of this was set up within a month?” He nodded at the dome of sigils that encompassed the sky over the asylum. “Look at that song, Miquel. It's been rehearsed for longer than a month.”

Miquel became as still and quiet as a pool of water. “This doesn't have to do with Diago, does it? It's Rafael. They're after Rafael.”

Guillermo considered the theory. “ ‘The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world,' ” he quoted. He wanted a smoke but didn't light one of his cigars. He needed that edginess now. “It's plausible Engel wants both of the bombs—­the one that Prieto guards and the one that Diago guards.”

“Greed is a deadly sin.” Miquel kissed Rafael's button and pocketed it.

“You've gotten attached to that kid in a short amount of time.”

“He's a sweet boy, and Diago loves him. They are trying so hard to be good to each other, and they are so afraid of loss, it breaks my heart to watch them.”

“How are you holding up?”

Miquel shrugged. “I'm fine.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. I'm trying to be patient with Diago while he works through what happened with Candela. I've talked with Suero some.”

Suero would know. Like Diago, Suero had suffered a rape; although he had been abused by another man. Guillermo nodded. “I wish the others knew to rely on one another like you do. If you ever need to talk, you can come to me, too. Or Juanita. Anytime. You understand?”

“Yeah. I will.” Miquel nodded. “Thanks.”

They fell silent as they neared the back entrance to the asylum. The hair on Guillermo's arms rose. He downshifted the truck and leaned forward to look out the windshield.

Miquel evaluated the dome over the asylum. “How are we going to sneak past that?”

“It doesn't appear to be designed to keep anyone out. Besides, it may work in our favor.” The vibrations were rigid and were dictated to a specific function. “What are the odds of us being heard in all that noise?”

“What are the odds of us finding Diago and Rafael in all that noise?” Miquel countered.

Guillermo was almost sorry he'd asked Juanita to remain at Santuari. They could have used an angel's help, but she was of more value to him at Santuari. If anything happened to him, Juanita would guide Los Nefilim until Ysa was old enough to step into her place as queen.

He pulled the truck beside the curb. A thin line of jade-­ and umber-­colored sigils rose over the rooftops. Rather than become entangled with Die Nephilim's wards, the glyphs filtered outward and spread like fingers into the buildings.

“Look.” Guillermo pointed.

Miquel frowned. “That's Diago's song, and it looks like the other glyphs belong to Amparo, like they're singing together. Maybe she hasn't turned traitor, after all.”

“She gets the benefit of the doubt until proven otherwise.”

They watched the song in silence. Amparo's colors were wrong, almost sickly in appearance. Then the umber tones strengthened. They overtook the jade vibrations until the green was but a pale reflection within the golden hues.

Miquel said, “I've never seen Diago create a song like that. It's almost like he's using her as a microphone for his own spell.”

Guillermo nodded. That was a good summation. Diago's song was prominent.
It is and it isn't.

Before he could grasp what made the vibrations feel so wrong, he was distracted by movement at the hospital's gate. He shifted his attention to the two guards. They were watching the truck and talking to one another. Guillermo couldn't immediately tell if they were mortal or Die Nephilim.

“We've got eyes on us,” Guillermo muttered.

Miquel followed his gaze. He unbuttoned his coat and placed his hand on the butt of his Luger. “Whenever you're ready.”

“If they are mortals, let me handle it.” Guillermo put the truck into gear and eased it forward. “Remember, they break easily, and if we kill one, other mortals will come looking for us. Don't make more problems than we already have.”

“Understood.” Miquel caressed the grip of his pistol. “But if it's Die Nephilim, let's give them the righ­teous­ness of our silver.”

“In abundance,” Guillermo replied as he dropped his lighter into his pocket. He reached beneath Diago's coat and slid his revolver within easy reach.

When the truck reached the gate, Guillermo saw the guards were mortal. The one on the right had only one eye, his scarred visage a testament of artillery fire. He was apparently a veteran of either World War I, or the Rif War. The conflict didn't matter. He possessed an aura of bravado the younger guard lacked, and that might be trouble for them.

Guillermo lowered his window. “Which way to the kitchens?”

“What are you delivering?” One-­eye appraised the empty bed.

“Sacks of almonds are in the bed.” Guillermo crooned the words.

The other guard hung back, fingering the black baton he carried. He cast an uneasy glance from the one-­eyed guard to the empty bed.

The one-­eyed guard nodded and gestured to a lane. “Take the road to the left. You'll see the kitchens just before the wards.” He stepped back and waved them forward.

Guillermo smiled and sent a small veil of illusion over the younger guard's vision, too. Then he put the truck into gear and drove them through the gate. He cranked up his window and growled, “That was too easy.”

“You think Engel is overconfident?”

“Or he wants us here.” Guillermo pulled in behind the kitchen and shut off the engine.

The truck didn't appear out of place among the other ser­vice vehicles. A mule, which was hitched to a worn wagon, turned a baleful eye on them. Overhead, unobserved by the mortals who went about their business, Die Nephilim's sigils rose and fell, vibrations entwining to form a pulsing net over the grounds.

“Do we have a plan?” Miquel asked as he assessed an open door where the kitchen's steam poured into the cool air.

“The plan is to find Diago and Rafael, and then get the hell out of here. Sofia and her group will take care of Die Nephilim.” Guillermo retrieved his revolver and placed it in his pocket. “Could you tell which building Diago's song came from?”

Miquel pointed. “That one.”

Guillermo recognized the barred windows. A muscle twitched in his cheek. “That's bad.”