Los Nefilim Book 4 (23 page)

Drowsily, Diago touched the soft vibrations before they dissolved. Water trickled down the side of the tub in shades of silver and blue.

“What happened?” Miquel moved the washcloth in slow circular sweeps across Diago's back.

Haltingly at first, then with increasing confidence, he told Miquel about the day. By the time he reached his meeting with Alvaro, his eyes burned with the tears he'd dared not shed in front of either his father or Guillermo.

Miquel passed the wet cloth over Diago's forehead. “Let yourself weep, my star. It's all right to mourn.” Concern tinged his words in shades of brown. “It's only when you hold your grief in your soul does it turn into poison.”

“I've had enough poison for one lifetime.” He drew his finger across the vibrations of Miquel's voice and allowed his tears to come. With his thumb, he caressed Miquel's lower lip. “Stop frowning, my sweet Miquel. I'm all right. I am.”

Miquel took Diago's wrist and kissed his palm. Their wedding bands touched—­Miquel's gold against Diago's silver, and the tingle of his lover's magic wrapped Diago in warmth.

“Your colors are so beautiful. Sing to me.”

“Quietly though,” Miquel said. “So we don't wake Rafael.”

“Quietly,” Diago murmured.

Unlike his other attacks of chromesthesia, this one was almost languid. These were the gentle sounds. Shades of peace . . . and love. Miquel swirled the cloth in the water and hummed a soft song filled with saffron and gold. The sound spun over Diago's skin. Miquel's tenderness drove away the dark, one melodious note at a time, and wrapped Diago in the silken colors of home.

Part Three: The Second Death

 

Chapter One

Barcelona

2 December 1931

C
louds the color of gunmetal obscured the morning sun and heralded another gray day. These last weeks seemed full of them. Pale shades of smoke and ash washed through the bathroom's narrow window. Diago flipped the switch by the door. Electric light flooded the room and touched the reflection of a man who'd taken the hard end of a fight.

He shut the door and dropped his bloodied napkin into the hamper.

“Jesus. What a mess.”

A thin line of blood oozed from a deep cut on his cheek. He found a clean washcloth and pressed it against the gash.

Last night, the daimon Lamashtu had given no quarter in her battle to possess him. She had shoved him against the sewer's concrete floor as if he'd been a rag doll. Had she possessed the body of a Nefil rather than that of a mortal, she might have won.

She did enough damage as a mortal,
he thought. His clothes concealed the black bruises on his chest and back, but the lacerations across his cheeks and forehead were impossible to hide. If the road map of cuts and bruises were any indication, his journey with Los Nefilim had taken a rough curve. “I've turned into a gangster.”

A hard rap on the bathroom door caused him to start. Miquel didn't wait for an answer. He opened the door. “Are you talking to yourself?”

Diago's fingers tightened around the washcloth. “Did you come to help me or berate me?”

“Let me see,” Miquel said, ignoring Diago's question and gently prying the cloth out of his hand. With a gentle movement, which was meant to soothe, he rubbed his thumb over the bandage that covered Diago's missing pinky.

Once more Diago felt the
‘aulaq'
s hot breath as the vampire bit off his finger. He gave an involuntary twitch and Miquel released his hand.

As he focused on Diago's face, Miquel frowned. “You should have seen Juanita last night. This one could have used stitches like this other one.” He caressed the scar on Diago's opposite cheek.

“At least I have a matching set.” Diago's attempt at humor won him a scowl from Miquel. “You're right. I should have gone to see Juanita, but I wanted to be home.” After his battle with the daimon, he had craved the sight of his family like a drug. Yesterday his pain had been distant, soothed by the presence of Rafael and Miquel. This morning, though, the aches crept over his body and pummeled him with thuggish glee. “I need some more aspirin.”

“After lunch,” Miquel murmured.

Diago placed his hand over Miquel's and increased the pressure. Deep or not, the cut would heal. Regardless of what Miquel thought, Diago knew he'd done the right thing by coming straight home. Getting through this morning might be another matter entirely. “Guillermo wants us at the church at nine.”

“What does he need you to do?” Miquel asked.

“He wants me to tell the council about Alvaro.” The council would then determine how best to proceed against Diago's father.

Alvaro, with his trickster ways, was becoming a creature unlike anything the Nefilim had ever seen. Just the memory of his burning eyes and razored smile twisted Diago's stomach. Worse was Alvaro's utter lack of remorse—­he'd exulted in his transmogrification.

“What are you going to say?” Miquel's question jerked Diago's thoughts back to the present.

“That he should be given the second death,” Diago said. The second death, the final death from which no Nefil could ever reincarnate, was reserved for only the most recalcitrant of Nefilim.

Miquel frowned. “That's extreme.”

Guillermo had felt the same way last night, but his resistance to the idea would have to be overcome. “Alvaro deserves it.”

A loud thump came from the kitchen. “Papa?”

“Everything is okay,” Diago called to his son. “Finish your breakfast.”

Miquel sighed. “Let me go check on him. I'll be right back. We need to talk about this proposal of yours before you mention it to Guillermo's council.”

“Go. I'll be fine.”

Miquel hurried back to the kitchen.

Diago turned to the mirror and whispered, “Patricide.” The soft consonants drifted over the sink to touch his reflection. How could such a hateful word taste so sweet on the tongue? Surely if anyone merited such an end, it was Alvaro.

Or did he? If I had chosen to follow the daimons, wouldn't Alvaro's metamorphosis be justified, celebrated even?
The question was moot. Diago was Los Nefilim. He'd chosen his side just as Alvaro had.

Why, then? Revenge?
That was possible. Alvaro had done Diago no favors. He had plenty of reasons to loathe his father, more than enough to justify a desire for retaliation.
Is that why Guillermo resists the idea of the second death? Does he question my motives?

Diago turned over the thought in his mind. It was possible. Guillermo's position meant neither he, nor any of his Nefilim, could openly oppose the daimons without cause. To do so might fracture the uneasy truce between the angels and the daimons.

But since I am neither, everything I say or do is suspect. I need an irrefutable reason that will convince Guillermo to validate such an extreme death sentence.
Miquel had inadvertently given Diago a starting place when he'd explained how Los Nefilim moved as a unit. The question became, quite simply: how would Alvaro's death benefit Los Nefilim as a whole?

“I'll find a reason,” Diago whispered to his reflection. The morning's meeting was the perfect opportunity for him to convince high-­ranking members of Los Nefilim to act. “I am the deceiver. I know the art of persuasion.”

Miquel's voice drifted down the corridor. “Put your dishes in the sink. We'll do them when we get home.” He came back to Diago. “Here, let me see.”

“Is it still bleeding?”

“I think it's stopped. Yes. It has.” He cupped Diago's face and frowned as he examined him. “Look at you. What is this?” He wiped a tear from the corner of Diago's eye.

“The light is too bright.” Diago tried to pull away, but Miquel held him.

“Uh-­huh. Tell me what's wrong.”

“It's nothing. It's just the hangover from the morphine.” But that was also a lie. The morphine Lamashtu had injected into him last night was long gone from his system.

Of course, Miquel saw through the ruse and kissed his forehead. “You don't need morphine to make you morose.”

Having a partner who read him so thoroughly could be a disadvantage at times.
Deceiving strangers is far easier than duping those who live within our shadows.
“I'm just exhausted.” Closer to the truth, hopefully close enough to deflect any further questions. “Juanita is right. I've been doing too much, too soon.”

“You're healing faster.” Miquel assured him. “The more you use your magic, the quicker your wounds will mend. You're going to be fine.”

Looking into Miquel's eyes, Diago almost believed him.

“Papa?” Rafael squeezed past Miquel. “Are you all right?”

Diago looked down at his young son. Although he was dressed, his black hair had yet to meet a comb this morning. Dark shadows rested beneath his eyes, which were still puffy from last night's tears.

“I'm fine.” Diago summoned a smile for the child.

“Good, because I have to use the bathroom.
Right now
.”

“I'm going to finish in the kitchen,” Miquel said as he released Diago. “We need to get going soon.”

From where he stood, Diago couldn't see the mantel clock in their bedroom, but he was sure it was after eight.

“Papa!”

“Okay, okay.” Diago stepped into the hall. “Why does everything always start happening at once?”

The child tugged at his pants. “I can do it myself, Papa.”

“
Ya, ya, ya.
If you miss the bowl, clean it up. Understand?”

“I will. I promise! Now go, please, before I do!”

Diago tried to hide his smile. He slipped out of the room and shut the door on his son's distress. Just like that, Rafael had dispelled Diago's gloomy mood. All of his morbid thoughts about Alvaro receded behind the normalcy of the household sounds.

Diago went to his son's room. Rafael's drawings were tacked to the walls in a profusion of colorful, childish interpretations of the scenes around Santuari. Horses were his favorite, but he had drawn Guillermo's bulls, too. Another picture showed Guillermo's daughter, Ysabel, and Miquel playing guitar together. In the drawing, Miquel positioned Ysa's fingers over the strings as he taught her a chord.

While Miquel rarely had the patience to teach the other children, he had a special fondness for Ysa, and she, in turn, worshipped him as only a seven year old could. Rafael had captured their tender moment with the stroke of his pencils.

He sees the world so differently from me,
Diago thought as he brushed his knuckles over the drawing.

Miquel knocked on the doorframe as he passed. “Don't get lost, my star.” He slipped into their bedroom and rummaged through the bedside table's drawer for his keys and change.

Diago blinked and realized Miquel was right—­he didn't have time to lose himself in Rafael's world right now. He straightened the bed, and put the sketchbook and pencils in his son's satchel. Just as he finished, Rafael returned.

“I didn't dribble this time, Papa.”

“Did you wash your hands?” Diago asked.

Rafael sighed and returned to the bathroom.

Diago followed him and picked up his comb.

“No! No!” Rafael ran his wet fingers over his unruly locks. “You don't need to comb it, Papa. I'm Gitano.” He shook his head. “My hair is wild like my spirit.”

“Wild spirits in this house comb their hair.” Diago grabbed a towel and wiped his son's damp fingers. Stray hairs drifted into the sink's basin and joined those of Miquel and Diago. He wiped the strands off the porcelain. “It looks like a family of bears lives here.”

Rafael giggled and raised his arms over his head, hands clenched like claws. He roared until the comb snagged a tangle. “Ow!”

Diago leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Then stay still. Even bear cubs don't wiggle when their papas comb their hair.”

“Bears don't comb their hair.” The child's busy fingers found a chip in the sink's porcelain. “When I'm grown up, I'm never combing my hair.”

“Don't you want to look nice for Ysa today?”

He picked at the sink's scar. “I want to stay home today.”

“You can stay with Lucia and Ysa for a little while.”

Rafael said nothing.

“Don't you like playing with Ysa?”

“Yes.” Rafael rubbed his thumb around the chip.

“So?” Diago worked his fingers through a snarled lock and held his breath. Had he and Ysa fought? A generous girl, Ysa could sometimes be overbearing, but Diago had never known her to intentionally hurt another person. “Why don't you want to go?”

He shrugged.

Diago kept his tone even as a suspicion caught up with him. “Is it Lucia?”

A moment passed and Diago thought Rafael wasn't going to answer him. Finally, his son nodded.

“And what does she say?” Because it was Lucia, it had to be something out of her vicious mouth.

Another shrug. “Just things.”

“What kind of things?”

“She said I should never go to Morocco, because I am small and dark like a monkey. She said someone would see that I am daimon and stuff me in a bottle and make me a jinni. Then she laughs like it's a joke, but her eyes are all hard and mean.”

Jesus.

Lucia. Ysabel's governess made no secret of her hatred for Diago, which was fine with him, but taking out her pettiness on Rafael was a step too far.

Diago was careful to keep his anger out of his face and voice. He didn't want Rafael to think he was upset with him. Instead, he took his son's shoulders and gently turned the child so he could see his face. A river of tears would be preferable to the hurt he saw in Rafael's eyes. “You know what? You can come with us this morning. I'll bet Father Bernardo has someplace where you can sit and draw pictures while we talk, hmm?” He smoothed Rafael's hair and glanced into the hall to see that Miquel had joined them. How much had he heard?

Diago didn't have long to wonder.

Miquel came into the bathroom and stood behind Diago. “Pick him up.”

Diago lifted Rafael so he could see himself in the mirror. Three faces, three shades of skin that passed from Rafael's light gold to Diago's tawny flesh, and finally Miquel's dusky brown.

Miquel made a great show of assessing their faces. “You know what, Rafael? I am darker than you.”

“Miquel is Gitano, too,” Diago whispered in Rafael's ear. “And everyone thinks he is very, very handsome.”
Including me,
he thought as he examined his lover's reflection.

A ghost of a smile touched Rafael's mouth.

“And your papa is part daimon like you,” Miquel said. “No one has stuffed him in a bottle and made him a jinni.” He reached around Diago to touch Rafael's chin. “No one is going to mistake us for monkeys, or jinn.”

“That's right,” Diago said. “We're a family of bears.”

Rafael gave a soft roar and the mischievousness returned to his eyes.

Diago gave him a fierce hug and set him on the floor. “Go get your satchel. We don't want to be late.” Before Miquel could slip around him, Diago blocked the door and whispered, “He's not staying with Lucia again.”

Miquel's eyes were hard as obsidian. “Agreed. But you say nothing. Let me handle it.” Diago opened his mouth to protest, but Miquel touched his finger to Diago's lips as he spoke to Rafael. “Go get your coat and wait for us in the living room. We'll be right there.” He waited until Rafael had gone before he continued. “I don't want Lucia speaking against you. She is a viper, and by the time you realize the damage she's done, it will be irreparable. She can't hurt my reputation with the others, but you're still in a vulnerable position.”