Los Nefilim Book 4 (6 page)

Miquel dropped onto the seat beside them. He hooked his arm around the pole and stared at the opposite side of the car with glassy eyes. Diago watched his reflection in the window. A long jagged cut severed the bruise where José's signet ring had caught the side of Miquel's face. He hadn't noticed it before . . . and he felt guilt for that failure, too.

Diago groped for the self-­confidence that he'd possessed back at the apartment and found it gone. Prieto had slammed them through the realms with no preparation at all, and their bodies bore the shock of the transition. Worse, he didn't have the slightest idea how to circumvent Prieto or Moloch. When the train stopped, they would be at the daimon's door.

He and Miquel didn't speak. The only sound was the wheels clicking beneath them. Diago watched the lights fade, until everything outside the train was in darkness. Another rumble announced a second train passing in the opposite direction. Ghostly figures wandered the aisles of the other train. The creatures stared blankly out the windows, their faces circles of white, their mouths full of black. The images blinked by and were gone.

“Did you see that?” Diago asked Miquel's reflection.

Miquel didn't answer. He turned his head to the left and examined the car following theirs. He allowed his head to rest against the window behind them so he could look into the car in front of theirs. “They're on our train, too,” he said. “Where's your gun?”

Mention of the gun restored some of Diago's equilibrium. He scooted far enough forward for Miquel to lift his sweater and retrieve the Luger.

“Silver tips?” Miquel asked as he slid the weapon from Diago's holster.

“You know they're all I use.”

Rafael stirred as Diago slid back again. The boy pulled away from Diago and looked to the car behind them. With slow careful movements, he worked himself down to sit between Diago and Miquel. He made himself as small as he could, and hugged his ragged horse against his chest in a defensive posture that Diago recalled using when he was a child himself. Smaller targets passed unseen.

Rafael's wide eyes followed Miquel's hands as he checked the gun's magazine. “What are they?”

“Nefilim that have been turned,” said Miquel.

“Into what?” Rafael asked.

Diago tilted his head until he could see into the adjoining car. Three of the creatures stood at the window. They were naked, two males and a female, their flesh pale from their days underground. Their heads were unnaturally long, with pointed chins and ears. Dry cracked lips spread around their enormous canines. Eyes like saucers shined with the Nefilim's preternatural glow. The female's right arm ended at her elbow. The tallest male bore thick ropy scars across his chest, as if burned with acid. The other male showed no overt injuries, but Diago was sure that he, too, suffered the scars of a daimon attack.

Diago opted for discretion. No use terrifying the child even more, and while he wouldn't lie, he saw no point in being direct. “They are
‘aulaq,
” he said. “They were once Nefilim. Rather than face another incarnation, they choose to serve the daimon that turned them.”

Rafael plucked his pony's mane. “I don't understand.”

“If a daimon scars a Nefilim, we regain those wounds in our next life. It is like they scar our souls so that our bodies will remember. We cannot escape the curse of their damage, and some would rather remain dead than endure such agony with each rebirth.”

“How do they stay alive?”

Miquel checked the round in the chamber. “They're vampires.”

Rafael's eyes widened and he clutched his horse. He crossed himself three times in rapid succession and mumbled his way through several Hail Marys.

So much for discretion.
Diago slipped his arm around his son's shoulders and spoke to Miquel. “The bullets won't stop them.”

“Their memories of pain will. And the silver
will
burn them.” Miquel raised the gun and pointed it at one of the males. “It's something, at least.”

All three of the
‘aulaq
ducked out of sight.

That wouldn't last long. “Why do they shadow us?”

“They're making sure you take Rafael to Moloch.”

“I'm not giving him to Moloch.”

“I don't expect you to.”

“You're not angry about Candela?”

“No, but you should be. She r—­”

“Miquel.” He inclined his head at Rafael. He switched to Old Castilian—­a medieval form of Spanish that bore the same relationship to modern Spanish as Old English did to English—­so that Rafael couldn't understand him. “Not in front of the boy. There is nothing worse than to hear you're not wanted.”

Miquel closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. “All right. Later then. We'll talk. Right now, we need to figure a way out of this.”

Relieved, Diago switched back to Catalan. “I'm open to ideas.”

“It's simple. We replace Rafael.”

Diago knew Miquel too well to think he meant another child. “But how?”

“A golem.”

“A golem?”

“Exactly. We can make Moloch think it's a real child by using Rafael's hair and blood.”

Rafael narrowed his eyes at Miquel and tightened his jaw. Diago knew the incredulous look well because it belonged to him. It was just the first time he'd ever seen it on someone else's face.

He hurried to reassure the boy. “It will be a small cut and will only hurt for a little while.”

“Mamá said I wasn't to do magic, that the mortals wouldn't understand.”

Miquel pointed out the obvious. “There are no mortals here.”

“Sister Benita says that magic belongs to the devil.”

Miquel lifted Rafael's hat. “Is Sister Benita here?”

“She says that even if she doesn't see my sins, God will know.”

Diago remembered hearing a similar conversation between Guillermo and Ysabel. “Of course, God will know,” he parroted Guillermo's explanation. “God gave you that power, and if it came from God, it must be good? Yes?”

Rafael considered this. “I hadn't thought of that.”

“Obviously, neither has Sister Benita,” said Miquel. “It's settled. We'll use a golem.”

“Except I can't create a golem. Only the angel-­born Nefilim can breathe life into a golem.”

Miquel leaned over Rafael and blew a soft gust of air against Diago's cheek.

Diago closed his eyes. “You would do this for him?”

“Is he yours?”

“Yes.”

“Do you love him?”

“I want to try.”

“Then how can I not?”

“I don't deserve you.”

Miquel slid his wedding band off Diago's finger and put it back on his hand. “No. You deserve better. You just won't let yourself believe it.”

A loud scraping noise drew Diago's attention back to the window. The three
‘aulaq
had risen. The tall scarred vampire tapped the glass with a long ragged nail. Miquel raised the gun again. They flinched but did not hide.

Diago turned his face away from the
‘aulaq
and said, “Moloch will expect a trick such as that.”

Miquel shrugged and lowered his voice. “How is he going to know? He cannot touch the boy without destroying the child's innocence. Such an act would render the sacrifice impure. He must rely on the parent to validate the gift.” Miquel rested his hand on Diago's shoulder. “He is so hungry he is bartering with angels. You are half daimon. You can convince him the sacrifice is real.” He gave Diago's shoulder a reassuring squeeze then released him.

Rafael tugged at his pony's mane. “Am I angel or daimon?”

Diago ignored him and spoke to Miquel. “I'm not sure I can.”

“Of course you can. Our lives depend on it.”

The train slowed and, in counterpoint, Diago's pulse picked up speed.

“Papa?” A low whine crept into Rafael's voice.

Diago closed his eyes and made a conscious effort not to snap at the boy. “What?”

“Am I angel or daimon?”

“You are like me.” Diago stood and tugged Rafael's hand. “You are both.”

Rafael refused to budge. Diago couldn't help but wonder how so small a child could gain such weight on a moment's notice. He tugged harder, but Rafael resisted him. “Are we going to hell?”

Diago opened his mouth, then immediately shut it again. The fear in his child's eyes sapped him of any reassurances.
I have nothing to offer him but lies that even I don't believe anymore.

Miquel stood as the train slowed to a stop. He took Rafael's elbow and slid him off the seat. “We're here.”

That seemed to answer more than one question.

 

Chapter Four

D
iago followed Miquel onto the platform. The tall scarred
‘aulaq
stuck his head outside the door. Miquel raised the gun and took three steps forward. The
‘aulaq
ducked back onto the train. No others emerged. Moments passed before the doors shut. The train rumbled away.

“Why didn't they get off?” Diago watched the lights disappear around a bend.

“They didn't need to. We are exactly where they want us to be. Where are we going to go?” Miquel asked, looking around.

Diago's eyes took in the wide platform, and he realized Miquel was right. A set of stairs descended into a dim hall. The only other exit was the tracks themselves, and Diago had no doubt that the
‘aulaqs
were waiting for them in the darkness.

Rafael hugged his horse and craned his neck to look down the stairs. “Is this hell? Sister Benita said hell was made of fire. I'm cold.”

“I'm starting to wish Sister Benita was here.” Miquel fingered the gun's trigger.

A note of warning crept into Diago's voice. “Miquel.”

“
Ya, ya, ya
.” Miquel waved Diago's concern away. “But still.”

Rafael linked his fingers with Diago's. “I lost Mamá's tear. Señor Prieto took it from me.” His nose reddened.

Diago recognized the signs of distress. A full-­blown crying jag would soon follow if he didn't figure out what Rafael was talking about. “Calm down and tell me, what tear?”

“It looks like a marble.”

“Ah.” Diago reached into his pocket and produced the carmine marble. Rafael brightened as if he'd been given the sun.

Warmth spread through Diago's chest, and he couldn't deny the pleasure he felt at mitigating the crisis with so simple a move. He glanced up at Miquel, who didn't appear half as pleased, but at least he wasn't frowning anymore.

Rafael clenched the marble in his fist. “Thank you! Mamá said as long as I held her teardrop, she would be with me.” He shivered from the cold.

Now Rafael's attachment to the marble made sense. It wasn't a marble at all, but an angel's teardrop. Diago recalled that Candela's eyes had been that color, gold and carmine with streaks of black. An angel's tear was as precious as gold to a Nefil. No wonder the boy had been so frightened about its loss. “Put it in a safe place.”

Rafael tucked the teardrop into his shirt pocket over his heart.

Diago's gaze quickly swept the barren station. “There is nothing here to make a golem with.”

Miquel went to the steps and looked down. “Maybe down there.”

Diago joined him. “How far to Moloch, I wonder?”

“Prieto gave us two hours. How long was the train ride?”

“Too long,” Diago said. Every moment wasted on that train worked against them, but that was what Prieto wanted. Any advantage he gave to Diago and Miquel would be seen by the daimons as an attempt to cheat Moloch of his prize.

Miquel sniffed the air. Diago did the same and wrinkled his nose. Rafael mimicked them. Beneath the oily scent of industrial smoke and sewage was the distinct odor of decay and death.

“I'll go down first.” Miquel lifted the pistol.

Diago shook his head and retrieved his knife. “No.” He lowered his voice. “If there is anything down there, I will deal with it.”

Rafael was pale beneath the dirty florescent light. He stared at the concrete steps, his lips pressed together.

Diago squatted in front of him and finally managed a believable lie. “It's going to be okay. Will you trust me on that?”

Rafael touched the pocket that held Candela's teardrop. He nodded.

“Not much choice, huh?” The jibe won Diago a weak smile. “Stay with Miquel and do exactly as he says.” He took off his coat and wrapped it around the boy like a cloak.

Rafael clenched the collar at his throat and gave Diago another nod.

Diago kissed his cheeks and rose. As he moved to the stairwell, he paused in front of Miquel. “If I call out, take your chances on the tracks. Watch out for him.”

“You know I will.” Miquel linked his pinky with Diago's.

They were close enough to kiss, and Diago considered it. They never knew when the last time might come, but he was also acutely aware of Rafael's presence. In all probability, Sister Benita had rendered her opinions on homosexuals, too, and Diago had no doubt those judgments encompassed the proverbial trinity of hell, fire, and damnation.

So with regret, he slipped away from Miquel and stepped onto the concrete steps, watching the shadows for any movement. Water dripped nearby and the hiss of steam curled through the air. He held the knife close to his body and out of sight. From this point forward, he intended to be the one giving out surprises.

He reached the base of the stairs without incident. A single bulb sputtered weakly and illuminated a door no taller than Diago's hips. Graffiti covered the door and the surrounding wall. A crude drawing of a red-­lipped mouth with oversized canines opened around the words “TENGO HAMBRE.”
I AM HUNGRY.
Someone else had scratched profanities into the paint with a rock or knife.

With his hand on the latch, Diago listened for any movement on the other side. He detected nothing.
Time to take a chance.

The metal door groaned in protest as he forced it open. He hunched over and stepped across the threshold, quickly turning first left, then right. He was alone.

Feeble light revealed that he was in a sewer. The entire tunnel was no more than two metres wide. A trough ran between two narrow walkways. Judging from the amount of debris—­newspapers, random pieces of clothing, stuffed animals, and abandoned toys—­this sewer hadn't been flushed in decades. A heavy coating of sludge had accumulated in the gutter, probably the combination of a recent rain and seepage from a storm drain farther away.

The brickwork indicated this section had been around since the Romans had occupied the city. Like all of the old Nefilim, Diago knew the tunnels and tombs beneath Barcelona. They had used them to hide from the Church during the Middle Ages, and well into the eighteenth century. Even so, there were portions of the city where Los Nefilim dared not go, and this, like other sections, was one such place.

Diago quickly took stock of his surroundings. A square sign hung from one rusting bolt on the opposite wall. The street name had been scratched out, and someone
(or something)
, had written: “THE WAY TO PEACE.”

If you find peace through death,
he thought as he looked to his right. There, the tunnel disappeared into blackness so thick it could be felt. He couldn't navigate in such darkness. Although his night vision was far superior to that of mortals, he still needed a small measure of light to see.

He shifted his attention to his left, where the passageway continued for several metres before it branched into two separate tunnels. A narrow concrete footbridge linked the walkways across the troughs. The passage on the left disappeared into complete darkness. Within the right-­hand tunnel, a few scattered ceiling lights blinked and flickered.

The slow steady throb of industrial machinery mimicked the pounding of drums. The sounds were disorienting, seemingly pouring from all directions at once, and Diago didn't discount that possibility. The sewer was most likely a labyrinth of side passages that amplified and distorted the acoustics.

Hypnotized by the beat, he stared down the tunnel and remembered.
They pounded the drums to cover the cries of the children as they burned
.
Those horrors had come during Solomon's last days, when his mind had succumbed to the terrors of the night, and I lived in banishment from the palace and all that I knew.

Diago shuddered and forced the memory away. The past was done, and lingering over ancient incarnations was the route to insanity. Besides, it was the future that needed saving.

Keeping Rafael's face in his mind, Diago sheathed his knife in his belt and got busy. Within moments, he had scavenged through the muck to find a few sticks of wood, an armful of clothing, and a ­couple of shoes.

Back upstairs, he motioned for Miquel and Rafael to move as far away from the stairwell as they could. Diago deposited the items he'd collected against the far wall. Miquel wasted no time sorting through the refuse for the parts he needed. He used the wood to assemble a makeshift body for their golem. While Miquel worked, Diago made another trip down into the sewer and found an abandoned coat. He filled it with sludge that he hoped was mud, and several newspapers and handbills. When he passed the door on the way back upstairs, he pushed it shut behind him. Hopefully, it would be enough to block their conversations from anything that might be listening below.

By the time Diago reached them the second time, Miquel had already lashed together the sticks, using one of the old shirts. He took the mud and paper that Diago brought and shaped a crude head.

Rafael cast furtive glances at the stairwell and chewed his lower lip as he handed the mismatched shoes—­one black, the other brown—­to Miquel. Miquel tied the shoes to the sticks and inspected his work.

Diago's heart sank. “No one is going to believe that's a child.”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” Miquel muttered as he concentrated on his work. “Give me a few locks of his hair.”

Diago exhaled slowly and gestured for Rafael to come to his side. He took out his knife and cut three locks from Rafael's curls. The boy watched with interest as Diago handed the hair to Miquel, who sprinkled the shorn tresses over the golem's head.

“Now his blood. Not too much. Feed them too much and they take on a will of their own.”

“Give me your hand,” Diago whispered.

Rafael clenched his fingers into fists and backed up two steps.

Diago couldn't blame him. The knife must seem huge to him. “Please trust me, Rafael. It will only sting. Just a little.” He held out his hand and was surprised when Rafael returned to him with no further coaxing. Diago took the stuffed horse away and set it aside. He opened Rafael's hand and hummed a short spell against his palm to numb the nerves. The song was too quiet to relieve all of Rafael's pain, but it would keep him from feeling the worst of the cut. “I'm going to prick your hand, and it might hurt. Don't cry out.” He held Rafael's palm over the golem's head.

The child's face was white, but he gave Diago a tight nod nonetheless. As quickly as he could, Diago sliced a shallow gash across Rafael's palm. Tears leaked from the boy's eyes, but he made no sound.

“You are my brave child,” Diago said as he moved the boy's hand back and forth over the golem's head. Rafael's blood dribbled over the misshapen brow.

Miquel used a sliver of wood to carve the symbols for life in the golem's forehead. The strands of hair took root, and grew until they were an exact replica of Rafael's thick hair.

Rafael was so intent on the changes within the golem, he barely noticed Diago binding his hand.

Miquel put his mouth on the golem's and hummed a low note. The pearlescent hues of his aura divided the air and flowed between the golem's mud lips. The golem lifted its eyelids and blinked slow and heavy.

Rafael gasped and took a step backward.

The hair on Diago's arms went up and he fell back with Rafael. “Jesus, that's creepy.” He could have sworn the creature looked hurt by the pronouncement. The lopsided mouth merely amplified the eerie expression.

Miquel examined it critically and kept his voice low. “It's missing something.”

“It's missing a lot.”

Miquel took Rafael's hat and carefully adjusted it on the golem's head. “There. That's better.”

Only because it shadowed the eyes, but Diago didn't say that. The sand was slipping through the hourglass. He had to hurry. “I have to carry it, don't I?” he asked, dreading the answer.

Miquel sat back on his heels and studied his handiwork. “Of course you do. He doesn't have knees.”

“Jesus.”

“Will you stop whining?”

“All right, all right.” Diago stuck the knife in his belt and knelt before the golem.

The golem turned its bulbous head and looked from Miquel back to Diago. It whimpered.

Diago gritted his teeth. “What's wrong with it?”

“He senses you don't like him.”

“Jesus.”

Rafael glanced at the stairwell. “Sister Benita says we shouldn't take the Lord's name in vain.”

Miquel made a face. “I hate Sister Benita.”

“Everyone else does, too.” Rafael came to stand beside Diago and held out his stuffed horse to the golem. “I'm sorry you're ugly and have to die for me. This is Aurelius. He is my friend. Hold him and he will comfort you.” He tucked the stuffed horse into the crook of the golem's arm.

The golem snuffled at the horse's mane and rewarded Rafael with a grimace that Diago assumed was supposed to be a smile.

Rafael reached into his pocket and withdrew Candela's teardrop. He clenched it in his fist and glanced at the stairwell. “Did you mean it when you said I could live with you?”

Diago didn't have to think about his answer. “Yes. I promise.”

Rafael nodded and twisted Diago's finger until Diago got the hint. Rafael pressed the tear in the center of Diago's palm. “Hold still,” he said.

Miquel craned his neck to see what was happening.

“Mamá said, ‘
Gólpe, gólpe, vuelta
.' ”

. . .
strike, strike, turn. . .

Rafael tapped the teardrop twice with his index finger before turning it clockwise. At first, nothing happened. Keenly aware of the time, Diago almost pulled away. Then the teardrop pulsed against his skin. Any thoughts of withdrawing from Rafael's touch left him. Golden light swirled up from the depths of the stone and became the veins of color within an angel's eye.