Los Nefilim Book 4 (13 page)

He'd thought I wasn't going to make it.
At the time, Diago had wondered himself. He remembered lurching across the platform, determined to reach the train before—­

Garcia bumped his shoulder. “The doors are going to shut.”

Diago opened his eyes. A vortex of sound waves rushed around him. Nauseated by the sight, he forced himself through the brilliant colors of the mortals' chatter. He spotted an empty seat by a window and fell into it.

Nearby, a mother rocked her child and hummed a lullaby.

The tune was identical to the one Rafael sang to Diago while he recovered from the
‘aulaqs'
attack.
Sleep, child, sleep / Mamá has gone away / she sets the stars alight all through the night / and watches while you sleep.
The memory of his son's boyish soprano relaxed him.

Garcia jostled him as he took the seat next to Diago, shattering the pleasant recollection. “You okay?”

Diago opened his eyes. The violent colors and sound waves receded. His vision returned to normal. The episode passed, along with his fear. Excellent. No need to mention the chromesthesia.
I moved through it.
That small victory heartened him. “I'm fine.”

“Good,” he said, although Diago sensed he really didn't care one way or another. Garcia reached into his coat and removed a small novel.

All around them, the mortals settled into their places as the car started to roll. The train picked up speed and passed into the tunnel.

Electric lights were spaced at regular intervals, illuminating the tunnel's concrete and steel girders. As they rode, Diago noticed deeper shades of purple and black that spread tentacles of darkness between the tiles. The colors indicated the outer edges of a bridge between the mortal world and the daimonic realms.

Odd. He'd ridden this route before and never noticed the bridge, so it must be newly formed. He glanced at Garcia but said nothing. Even though the angel-­born Nefilim weren't as receptive to the existence of the bridges as the daimon-­born, they could still perceive them. Diago's dual nature simply increased his sensitivity to such phenomena.

If he pointed out the boundaries, Garcia would have no difficulty seeing the bridge. Maybe this would be the first step toward building trust with the other Nefil. Diago lifted his hand to touch Garcia's arm, and then he froze.

Several metres away, the threads of color coalesced into a solid form as if a hole had materialized in the wall. A man stood on the mortal side of the bridge.

No. Not a man. No mortal could pass over a bridge without daimonic help. Whoever it was had to be a Nefil.

As the train approached, the Nefil turned his head. Anguished eyes looked out of a face twisted with agony. His mouth was forced open with a grayish-­green band of light, which extended his chin almost to the hollow of his throat. More of the same dull radiance poured through his nostrils. Not light, Diago realized as the train slowed to take the curve. The pulsating colors were streams of magic, and Diago recognized this palette as belonging to Moloch.

Judging from the streaks of puce flowing through the gray, Diago surmised Moloch was still injured by his encounter with Rafael, a testament to the child's power. However, while the daimon's injuries might keep him close to his fires and out of the mortal realms, he obviously wasn't so incapacitated that he couldn't send an emissary.

The Nefil stepped onto the narrow walkway between the tracks and the bridge. His features bespoke a Berber lineage diluted by Visigoth blood. Black lashes encircled his dark green eyes. Cut into his forehead was a single word: LIAR.

Alvaro.
Diago carefully lowered his hand back to his thigh and hoped Garcia hadn't noticed the movement.
He couldn't let Garcia see this.
A quick glance assured him the inspector was engrossed in his book.

Diago returned his attention to the figure on the bridge. He'd only seen his father's face when he'd worn the distorted features of the
‘aulaq
. At that time, Alvaro had looked nothing like Diago.

Now he does. There is no mistaking us for father and son because he no longer wears the flesh. I am seeing his soul, his true self.
He is dead. But he lives.

Alvaro twisted his head and worked his jaw. The perverse gag of Moloch's magic writhed down his throat.

His voice. Moloch had stolen his voice.

As Diago's car neared, Alvaro frantically snatched the train's smoke and twisted the mist into words.
Diago, my son, help me . . . help . . . she hunts . . . help me. . .

My son.
The old familiar hurt rose in his chest. When had Alvaro ever called Diago son?
Never.

Then Moloch's tether tightened around Alvaro's throat and yanked him back into the daimon's realm. Diago flinched. His father vanished within the pulsating darkness.

“Something wrong?” Garcia muttered.

Diago started. He shook his head. “No.”

“You're pale.”

“It's nothing.” He kept his gaze straight ahead, highly conscious of Garcia's scrutiny. He couldn't tell Garcia about Alvaro. He would see a conspiracy between father and son, or make up one to suit his needs.

“What is happening, Alvarez?”

“Nothing.” Diago repeated. He twisted his fingers into the fabric of his coat. Somehow Moloch had entrapped Alvaro's soul.

And?
Diago deflected his pain with a hard loop of hate.
What does it matter to me?
Alvaro made his choices. He had abandoned Diago when he was a child, bartered his soul to Moloch in order to avoid reincarnation, and thrived on the blood of others as an
‘aulaq
. Diago didn't have one damn reason to care what happened to Alvaro.

Except Alvaro gave his life so I could escape Moloch and save Rafael.
The act won Diago's respect.
But there's a long walk between respect and forgiveness.
One selfless act didn't negate a lifetime of neglect.

Nor did it explain Alvaro's sudden reappearance. Had he come back to warn Diago? Of what?
She hunts? What the hell did that mean?

And who is
she
?

“Alvarez?” Garcia's voice took an edge.

“I'm fine.”
Say it enough times, it might come true.
He fixed his eyes on the car in front of them. “I'm fine.”

Garcia lowered his book and watched Diago for the rest of the ride. When the train finally rolled to a stop at the Passeig de Gràcia station, Diago rose. The moment the doors opened he was off and moving toward the station's exit. He took the stairs two at a time and didn't slow until the sun drove the image of his father's tormented face into the shadows.

 

Chapter Two

O
nce above ground, Diago assumed a more causal pace. He observed the ­people who went about their busy lives completely unaware of the supernatural world moving beneath their feet. Before he'd joined Guillermo's group of Nefilim, Diago had enjoyed pretending to be mortal. He'd only used his magic when absolutely necessary and left the matters of angels and daimons to the clergy.

LIAR. The word carved on Alvaro's forehead jumped into Diago's mind.
I lied to myself for too long.
He'd feigned normalcy for many centuries and disregarded incidents like the one he just experienced.

It's like waking after a long sleep.
He mourned his old life for only a moment. As he passed a shop window, Alvaro's face haunted him. Again Diago saw the words:
help me . . . she hunts.

She hunts. What could it possibly mean?

Diago parsed the clues as he walked. If Alvaro knew of this mysterious female, then she was most likely a daimon, or maybe an
‘aulaq
. Either way, she was looking for something, and whatever that something was, Alvaro felt the need to warn Diago about her presence. Other than their relationship as father and son, the only two things linking Diago to Alvaro were Rafael, and the idea for the bomb Prieto had taken from Moloch.

Diago's mind immediately jumped to Rafael. Did the daimons hunt his son? Like Diago, Rafael carried the magic of both the angels and the daimons in his spiritual heritage. If the daimons could turn Rafael to their cause, they would acquire a powerful weapon against the angels and Los Nefilim.

Yet the analysis didn't fit. Concerning Rafael, the daimons had nothing to hunt. Moloch knew Rafael was with Diago, and no one had made any secret of Diago's presence at Santuari. No. Whoever “she” was, she couldn't be after Rafael. That left Prieto, and the idea for the bomb.

Diago's musings were cut short when a hand gripped his arm. Startled, he turned to find Garcia had caught up to him.

Diago tried to pull free without drawing attention to them but Garcia's grip tightened. “What—­?”

“Just shut up and move.” He steered Diago into the mouth of an alley.

Diago jerked free and put his back against the wall. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Garcia jabbed Diago's shoulder with one sharp finger. “I asked you a question on the train and you lied to me. I'm going to pretend it was because of the mortals. You've got one more chance to get right with me. What happened?”

Be careful. You need him. You need him to vouch for you.
Diago evaded the question and kept his tone even. “I don't report to you.”

Garcia coughed a humorless laugh. “You're confused, my friend.”

“We're not friends.”

Garcia's tone turned sly. “Then you'd better make some, Alvarez. You might have fooled Guillermo, but the rest of us see you for what you are. You're daimon and you'll wind up just like your father. You did in your firstborn life and you will here, too.” Garcia punctuated his last statement with a hard jab to Diago's shoulder.

You'll wind up just like your father.
The accusation sealed any doubts Diago had about telling Garcia what happened at the bridge. “Don't touch me again.”

Garcia ignored the warning. “You report to whomever asks you a question. Do you understand me?” He stabbed his finger in Diago's direction.

Diago's temper overrode his reason. He caught Garcia's fist and squeezed until Garcia's knuckles popped.

Why did Garcia push him?
Does he want me to lash out?
Of course, he did. This was probably how he provoked Miquel into punching him. The whole discussion was nothing more than an attempt to rouse Diago's temper.
And it's working.
Except Diago wasn't quite as hotheaded as Miquel. This altercation didn't need to progress any further than it already had.

Striking Garcia wasn't necessary.
Let him feel my power, acknowledge it with his face.
Holding tight to the other Nefil's fist, Diago waited until Garcia's lips thinned to a single white line. Only then did he speak. “Until I know who I can trust, I report to Guillermo. No one else.” He opened his fingers.

For one tense moment, Diago was sure Garcia intended to escalate the confrontation. Something in Diago's eyes stopped him.

Garcia looked away and fumbled for his cigarettes. When he struck the match, flakes of sulfur cascaded to the sidewalk. “I'm going with you to see Ferrer.”

No. Not now. Not even if you begged.
Diago wasn't going to be monitored by the likes of Garcia. “No.”

“You're going to botch this without help.”

Or you'll make sure the interview goes badly for me.
Garcia would love nothing more than to report Diago's incompetence to Guillermo.
Work around him.
“How can I earn your trust if you are always looking over my shoulder? I go in alone or not at all. Then you can explain the situation to Guillermo.”

The tip of Garcia's cigarette glowed like the fire in his eyes. He exhaled a cloud of smoke as caustic as his words. “Go alone. But I'm watching you.”

Diago didn't flinch from the inspector's stare. “Fair enough.”
So much for Guillermo's hope our working together would cement trust between us
.

He turned and walked away, acutely aware Garcia trailed him as he approached the Casa Milà's entrance. Garcia could stalk him the entire day for all Diago cared. He had no intention of giving the inspector cause for complaint.

Except for the lie of omission about the bridge,
his conscience needled him.

Yet nothing about the bridge was urgent. The numerous treaties allowed the daimons to form their own pathways between the realms under certain circumstances. No, the existence of the bridge didn't create the issue. It was Alvaro's presence which complicated the affair.

So simply tell Guillermo on the way home.
The drive to Santuari would give him ample opportunity to find a good moment to mention the bridge and Alvaro. Then Los Nefilim would have the information, and Diago would be spared yet another slur about his daimonic lineage.

Satisfied with his compromise, Diago nodded to the doorman as he entered the building. The ornate metalwork of the railings directed his eye toward the stairs. He loved Antoni Gaudí's integration of stone and metal, which formed naturalistic designs in modern architecture. Taking the stairs gave Diago ample opportunity to appreciate the small details of Gaudí's work. If only he hadn't suffered two attacks of chromesthesia in such close succession.

But I did, and I can't risk an attack on the stairs.
The vertigo could cause him to fall, and with only Garcia to find and help him, Diago decided to be cautious. With a sigh of regret, he bypassed the stairs and took the elevator.

The lift attendant spent the entire ride sneaking glances at Diago's scarred face. Diago kept his gaze straight ahead and ignored the boy. He needed to focus on his assignment.

Guillermo wanted an idea of Ferrer's political leanings, which would require small talk—­another thing Diago hated—­but Miquel had helped him rehearse some lines last night after Rafael had gone to bed. The difficulty would be getting Ferrer to drop his guard. The industrialist made no secret of his dislike for Diago. He considered music teachers to be worse than useless. The only reason he'd financed the lessons for his son was to appease his young wife, who likewise had no interest in music, but seemed to have developed a predilection for men of Diago's particular build and coloring.

Christ, the whole family gave him a headache. Diago dry-­swallowed three aspirin just as the lift finally reached the fourth floor.

“Have a good day, sir.” The young man shut the gate as soon as Diago cleared the lift.

“Yes, I would like one of those,” Diago muttered as he approached the Ferrers' apartment. He gave two firm knocks and waited.

Their maid, Elena, opened the door. Beneath her stiff white cap, a few silvery strands of hair comingled with her dark bob. She was barely forty. Even for a mortal, she was far too young to be going gray so soon. Of course, working for this family, Diago was sure his hair would have been white within a year . . . if he'd had any hair left.

“Maestro Alvarez? I thought we agreed you'd use the servants' entrance.”

“I never agreed to that, because I am not a servant in this house.” He met her look of disdain with utter indifference. “Is Señor Ferrer at home?”

Her gaze hardened into a glare. She straightened her back and peered down her nose at him. “He is.”

When she didn't invite him inside, he asked, “May I see him?”

He half expected her to close the door in his face and make him wait in the hall. She must have considered it, because she regarded him for almost ten seconds before she stepped aside and allowed him into the foyer. Nor did she offer to take his hat and coat. “Wait here.”

Instead of going to Ferrer's office, she turned and went down the hall toward Enrique's room. Odd. Given the hour, Enrique should have still been at school.

Elena was gone for only a few moments before she returned and said, “Follow me.”

From her quick step to her rigid frown, Diago realized she was still angry over his remark. Miquel was right. He really needed to work on his interpersonal skills.

In an attempt to make up for his brusque comment, he said, “I hope Enrique is all right.”

She turned on him with military precision and threw her sentence at him like an accusation. “He's ill.”

He backpedaled in the face of the verbal assault. While he didn't particularly care for the boy, he'd never wish an illness on anyone's child. “I'm sorry. I hope it's nothing serious.”

She seemed to sense his earnestness and some of her animosity faded. “The doctor said the sickness should pass soon.”

“That's good to hear.”

She nodded and started walking again. Her pace wasn't quite as furious. Diago congratulated himself on his tact.

As they passed the sitting room, he noticed the grand piano was gone. Enrique must have finally killed it. Señora Ferrer was nowhere to be seen. If the past was any indication, she was probably lunching with friends after shopping. She spent as much time as possible away from the apartment and the stepson she loathed.

Elena paused before an open pocket door. “Señor Ferrer will be with you momentarily.” She left him alone.

This was a stroke of luck. Prior to today, he'd never been allowed any deeper into the apartment than either the foyer or the parlor. Maybe he could get the information Guillermo wanted without having to chitchat with Ferrer.

Diago waited until Elena's footsteps receded down the hallway before he sidled over to the desk. An open briefcase contained an account book. He removed the ledger and flipped through the pages, quickly calculating the numbers in his head. If the figures were accurate, Enrique hadn't murdered the piano after all. Ferrer had probably sold the instrument.

Apparently the munitions factory, Ferrer y Esperanza, was running in the red.

Diago slipped the ledger back into the case and turned his attention to the newspaper clippings littering the desk. Each article described protests orchestrated by the CNT, the anarchist worker's union responsible for rousing employees to demand fair wages through strikes. Many of the names were circled.

Thus far, the CNT hadn't been terribly successful in unifying the workers, although they had managed to strike fear in Spain's upper classes. With Russia's February Revolution firmly entrenched in their memories, the nobility throughout Spain used the police and the Civil Guard to suppress any strikes. By quashing the protests, the upper classes and clergy thought they were avoiding a Spanish version of the Russian catastrophe. Without enforcing any reforms, though, they were about to usher in the very insurgency no one wanted.

Next to the newspapers were several typewritten sheets bearing Ferrer y Esperanza's emblem of crossed rifles. Names and job titles were listed. Any workers with associations within either the CNT or the more moderate Socialist workers' union, the UGT, carried a black mark beside their name.

So Ferrer fires the union members before they can make trouble
. That should give Guillermo the information he needed about the industrialist's political leanings. It was troubling but not unexpected. Having watched the landowners in Andalusia starve the farmworkers into compliance, Diago hadn't expected a man like Ferrer to be any different.

As he replaced the papers, he noticed one of the desk drawers was partially open. Inside, a heavy manila folder marked “CONFIDENTIAL” caught Diago's eye. He removed the memo. Then he carefully replaced the folder in the drawer.

The short message indicated three men were to deliver a shipment of firearm primer to a destination in El Raval. As Diago puzzled over it, he kept coming back to the address, which made no sense at all.
There aren't any factories in that area.

What the hell was Ferrer doing?

The front door banged open. Diago jumped at the sound. He whirled toward the door and banged his bandaged hand on the corner of the desk.
Oh, shit, shit.
Pain throbbed up his arm and into his shoulder.
Can this day get any worse?
He folded the memo and quickly jammed it into his coat pocket. Maybe Guillermo could make some sense of it.

“Elena!” It was Señora Ferrer, and from the pitch of her voice, Diago knew she was irritated at some perceived affront. “Is my husband still home?”

May God help him.
Cradling his injured hand, Diago looked over the briefcase and the papers. Satisfied everything seemed as it was when he'd entered the room, he went to the pocket door and leaned out.