Los Nefilim Book 4 (10 page)

The boy scrambled from beneath the seat and settled in between them. Diago put his arm around his son and hugged him close. While Rafael dozed, Diago told Miquel about Alvaro. Twice his grief choked him so hard, he couldn't go on. But he didn't cry. Diago's tears had abandoned him long ago, and left nothing but a desert in his soul.

T
hey emerged from the train into an empty station. Diago had no idea where they were. On the far wall, a clock moved its hands toward the hour of three.

Diago leaned heavily on Miquel as they followed the stairs up to the surface. Between his injuries and his trauma, he could barely lift his feet to navigate the endless steps. Every footfall sent bolts of agony through his body. The
‘aulaq
's poison had settled in his veins. He clenched his teeth together so hard, his head hurt. He was cold, and couldn't remember what he did with coat or his hat, or even why he was out so late.

For some reason, he kept thinking they had left Rafael behind, but whenever he called his son, Rafael answered him. He sounded far away, and Diago began to fear that Prieto had made good his promise, and stole the boy away again.

Then they were outside. The fog had cleared, blown away by a breeze borne by the sea, and the stars shined overhead, brilliant in the black sky. The pungent smell of cigar smoke wafted over them.

Diago heard Guillermo's voice before he saw him. The big man easily took Diago from Miquel's arms. “Hurry. The car is over here. I've had to pay the police off twice already. No one is supposed to be here this time of night.”

Diago laughed before he could stop himself.
He's worried about the police . . .
Unnerved by his own hysteria, he covered the sound with a cough. Were it not for Guillermo, he would have fallen to the pavement.

With Miquel's help, Guillermo maneuvered Diago into the backseat.

Suero was in the driver's seat. He watched them in the rearview mirror. “Do you need help?”

“No,” Guillermo and Miquel answered simultaneously.

Diago tried to see beyond Miquel. “Rafael. Where is he?”

“Who's Rafael?” Guillermo asked as he squeezed in beside Diago.

“I'm here, Papa.”

“Come quickly.” He held out his hand and Rafael approached the car as if it might bite him.

“Is this your car?” Rafael climbed into Diago's lap and curled up against him.

Guillermo's mouth dropped open. “You want to explain this, Diago?”

“I'll explain.” Miquel leaned inside and gathered Rafael into his arms. “Ride up front with us, Rafael. It's a bumpy trip, and Papa's hurt.”

Guillermo took off his coat and spread the heavy garment over Diago. Careful of Diago's arm, he shifted his bulk sideways in the seat, and placed his palm over Diago's forehead.

As they pulled away from the curb, Guillermo growled. “Talk to me, Miquel.”

So Miquel talked, and while he spun their tale, Diago passed into fever-­dreams. He dreamt of a fire that burned white-­hot, and a city reduced to ashes. He dreamt of ­people running through the streets, their bodies blackened by the flash that incinerated their homes. The dream-­fires morphed into sigils, wards that spun and guarded the lanes leading into the town of Santuari, where Guillermo's Nefilim lived.

Diago felt the magic of Los Nefilim wash over him and cool the fire in his veins. He dozed fitfully and awoke when gentle fingers brushed against his forehead.

Juanita spoke to him, but her voice was distant, like Rafael's had been at the train station. He wanted to ask her if she ever regretted taking her mortal form. Did she ever wish she was angel again, and could she find Candela?

Before he could form the questions, Juanita spoke to someone behind her. “Bring him to my examining room. I'm going to go wash up.” Then she left them, her black hair flying behind her as she ran toward the house, her bare feet skimming the ground as if she weighed no more than air. Maybe she still had her wings. Maybe they just couldn't see them anymore.

Guillermo picked Diago up as if he was a child and carried him to the side entrance that led to Juanita's small clinic. Miquel opened the door. Guillermo managed to get Diago inside without bumping his arm. He placed him on a cold white table.

Juanita had already scrubbed up and was filling one of her vicious needles.

Diago found his voice. “No morphine.”

Juanita ignored him. “Cut off his sweater for me.” She capped the needle and set it aside.

Miquel grabbed a pair of scissors and went to work.

Guillermo kept his hand on Diago's forehead. “He's burning up.”

“One thing at a time,
corazon
. First the arm. He is healing too fast and I'm going to have to break it again before I can set it.” She opened a bottle. “The fever is coming from an infection. I'll deal with that next.”

Miquel peeled away the sweater and breathed a curse. Diago didn't bother looking at the bruises that covered his torso. He winced at the smell of alcohol. “Where's Rafael?”

“I'm here, Papa,” he said from the doorway.

Lucia nudged the boy aside with her hip as she came into the room, carrying a pot of steaming water. “Where did he come from?”

“He's Diago's son,” said Miquel.

Lucia did a double take and set the water on the counter. “You see, Miquel? You can't trust daimon.” She fixed her vicious glare on Diago. “Are your lies catching up to you, Diago?”

“Shut up, Lucia.” Miquel shot her a murderous look.

“All of you shut up.” Juanita didn't spare Rafael a glance. “Take the boy out of here, Lucia. He doesn't need to see this.”

Lucia shrugged and started to go.

Diago grabbed Guillermo's wrist. Not Lucia with her caustic mouth and jealous eyes. She made no secret of her dislike of Diago, or her love for Miquel, and she would gladly sacrifice the one for the other. She would torment Rafael with questions and twist his answers to suit her gossip. All these thoughts crystalized in Diago's mind in a flash, but he couldn't push the sentiments past his dry tongue. All he managed to say was: “Not her.”

Guillermo nodded. “I'll take care of him, Lucia. You see to Ysabel and make sure she doesn't wander down here. Come on, Rafael.”

Rafael looked up at Guillermo and held his ground. “I want to be with my papa.”

“We'll come back when the doctor has set his arm.”

“But—­”

Diago caught Rafael's eye with a small wave of his hand. “Do as you're told.”

And Guillermo, intuitive to others as he always was, reached down and picked up Rafael as easily as if he was a puppy. He brought the child to Diago. “Say good night. My wife is the best doctor in the world and she'll have him up and about in no time. Your papa will see you when he wakes up.”

Rafael leaned down and pushed Candela's tear against Diago's palm. “Do you remember how to do it?
Gólpe, gólpe—­”

“
Vuelta,
” Diago whispered. “I remember.”

White gauze hid Rafael's worried face as Juanita draped the loose bandage over Diago's cheek. She gave Miquel a mask and instructed him to hold it over Diago's mouth. She asked, “Are you sure you don't want the morphine?”

He nodded. The sickness that accompanied the drug brought him worse agonies than the pain of a broken arm.

“Breathe deep.” She turned a dial on a small tank and he smelled ether flow into the mask. “Count backwards for Miquel. Diago?” Her palm rested against his face. “Count for Miquel. Ten . . .”

“ . . . nine . . .”

“That's it,” Miquel murmured.

And at seven, the pain receded beneath the veil of sleep.

D
iago awoke to moonlight creeping across the bedroom's floor. He wore someone else's pajamas. Judging from the size alone, the shirt belonged to Guillermo, which was just as well, since it easily fit over the plaster cast that hugged his arm. His cheek was swollen and stiff. He probed the gauze and felt the stitches beneath. Thousands of aches assailed his body, and he would have remained perfectly still, except a wave of nausea cramped his stomach. He tried to sit up.

Guillermo's large hand came out of the darkness to grip Diago's bicep. He helped him sit on the edge of the mattress and held a bucket while Diago vomited. With nothing in his stomach, Diago suffered through a few minutes of dry heaves before the sickness passed.

Guillermo handed him a handkerchief and set the bucket aside. “You've got a nasty infection. Here.” He poured a glass of water and added a white powder. “Juanita said to drink this. It will settle your stomach.”

He took the glass and tossed back the mixture like a shot. He didn't even ask what it was. The soapy aftertaste made him wince.

“That's one of her nastier potions.” Guillermo took a flask from his pocket. “Chase it with this.”

Diago took a long pull from the flask and tasted sweet red wine. “You have a bottle of this somewhere?”

“Trust me. You're not ready for the bottle.” He fixed the pillows and helped Diago sit up before he took a second glass and poured water in it. “Sip. If you hold all of that down, I'll give you some aspirin; although I recommend the morphine.”

“Aspirin will be fine.”

“Tough guy.”

“How long have I been out?”

“Three days in and out of consciousness. It's not the break but the infection. It looks like the fever has passed, though, and that's a good sign.”

“Where's Rafael?”

Guillermo sat back in the chair and pulled a cigar from his pocket. “We put him in with Ysabel for now. He was exhausted the first night. Fell asleep standing up while I bathed him. But he was in top form today and full of himself. He asks about you all the time. You can see him in the morning. Miquel wanted to stay with you, but he wasn't in much better shape than Rafael, so I pulled rank. He takes the days and I take the nights.” He offered Diago a cigar. “Want one?”

Diago shook his head and pressed the cool glass against his chest, quietly absorbing all that Guillermo told him. Rafael was safe for now and that was all that mattered.

“Congratulations, by the way. I have to admit I'm a little jealous. I wish I could have skipped the diapers and the teething and the tantrums, and just had a five-­year-­old deposited on my doorstep.”

“He's six.”

“Really?” Guillermo snipped the end off his cigar. “He's what the Scottish would call a wee one.” The flare of his match sent spirals of light through the stone in the large signet ring that he wore. “Want to talk to me about what happened?”

“What if I don't? You'll pull rank?” He instantly regretted his tone—­that was the pain biting. He leaned his head against the headboard and tried to wish the words away.

Guillermo seemed to take no offense. He tilted back his chair and opened the window. His tone remained mild, but he cut to the bone nonetheless. “Don't be angry with me. I'm not the one biting your fingers off in exchange for your oath.”

“That's not how it happened.”

“Don't tell me Moloch didn't try to bring you under his banner.”

“He tried.”

“And you said no.”

“That's why I'm here and not there.” Diago sighed. He didn't want to fight. “What do you want to know, Guillermo?”

“Miquel says that an angel took advantage of you in Triana.”

“I'm not sure which of us took advantage of the other.”

“Miquel seems certain.”

“She said she had a song.”

“And she gave you one. I delved his soul. This is his firstborn life, Diago. He has no past, only a future.”

“Then does it matter which of us was the aggressor?”

“It matters to Miquel, because if Candela raped you of your will before she raped your body, he doesn't have to face the question of your infidelity.”

Diago took a nervous sip of water. He hadn't thought of that, not in the rush of Prieto's accusations and Rafael's fears.

“Likewise, if you assert that you had a hand in your own seduction, you don't have to face the question of your vulnerability. Given the two scenarios, I'd say Miquel's is closer to the truth. Candela enchanted you.”

Diago's throat was on fire, but when he tried to drink, he choked on the water. He swallowed the truth hard. Guillermo was right, but that didn't mean that Diago had to love him for it. “Sometimes I hate you.”

“I'm your friend, not your dog.”

“I don't have a dog.”

“You should get one. They always love you and never question you.”

“Call it rape if you want. It doesn't change how I feel about Rafael.”

“And it shouldn't. It's not his fault.” Guillermo drew on his cigar. He added softly, “Or yours.”

Maybe. Maybe not. Diago tapped the glass with one restless finger. He sidestepped Guillermo's compassion by changing the subject. “Did Miquel tell you about Alvaro?”

“Your father?” Guillermo nodded. “Yes. What happened to Alvaro isn't your fault either. Whatever his reasons, he made his choices.”

“I have some decisions to make, too.” He stared at the opposite wall.

“What do you want, Diago?”

“I want Rafael to be safe.”

“He can't be safe and be Los Nefilim. We are born to fight for one side or the other.”

“Except for me.”

“Except for you.” Guillermo exhaled a cloud of sweet-­smelling smoke into the air. “How's that working out for you?”

Diago remembered Alvaro words:
You fought the world, Diago, and you fought alone. You sustained yourself on anger, and you forgot how to love.

Guillermo tapped the ashes from his cigar into a saucer. “This is the part where you usually say ‘fine.' ”

Jerked from the memory, Diago started. “What?”