Los Nefilim Book 4 (4 page)

Diago drew his Luger and held the gun close to his thigh. Not even silver tips would stop an angel, but holding the weapon comforted him with the illusion of protection. The skin on his exposed hands tingled. He paused, his palm damp against the grip of the gun.

The distant strains of a guitar drifted out of the fog. In those notes, Diago recognized one of Miquel's favorite
falsetas
. This one began
por arriba,
high along the frets, shifting rapidly through the notes. A wedge of hope pushed back his fear. If it was Miquel, then he might be all right.

The tune picked up speed. The player missed a chord. The song halted.

Diago froze.

The music began again—­louder, closer—­although Diago had not moved. Whatever approached was coming to him. The fog became electric. Drops of moisture sizzled against the black windows and shadow doors that lined the alley.

The strings hummed when the player missed his next chord. It
was
Miquel. Any doubt was erased by that error. When he grew tired, he always failed to make a smooth transition between F and E. Judging from the screech of his fingers along the strings, he was exhausted.

But he's alive. He's alive, and that's what matt—­

The song ended abruptly.

Diago thought he heard voices. He cocked his head.

A man spoke a command.

Miquel answered. “I can't.”

The man spoke again. His tone mocked Miquel's pain. “You will.”

Miquel began to play.

Rage flared through Diago's chest and into his head, almost blinding him. He clenched his jaw and pushed down his anger. He needed his mind clear.

The sounds drew closer still. Miquel's ring was warm on Diago's finger. Diago searched the gloom.
Come on. Stop tormenting us and show yourself.
As if in answer, a door appeared in the wall on his left. Cold blue light spilled across the threshold and shouldered the fog aside. Over the open door, an electric scorpion writhed and blinked in neon splendor.

Diago crept toward the entrance and peered inside. The room was gray, like the walls and the floor had been sculpted from the mist. The same lack of color that diluted the details of the bar enhanced the three figures within.

Miquel played a worn guitar, his fingertips dark with his own blood. Sweat dampened his black curls. Other than a bruise that spread across his left eye like a poison sunset, and his worn fingertips, he seemed to be all right.

Even so, Diago's heart hammered at the sight of him. Adrenaline flooded his body with an intoxicating mixture of relief and rage.

The loud click of marbles striking wooden trays redirected his attention to the table where an angel in his mortal form sat across from a child. Diago focused on the angel first. He was the same one Estrella had described. To any human who happened to glance at him, he appeared as a beautiful man with long silver hair pulled into ponytail that cascaded down his back. A closer look revealed that he had only four fingers on each hand.

Safe within his lair, he made no attempt to hide his feet, which resembled the clawed talons of a raptor. Thick fur covered his ankles and disappeared beneath the seams of his pants. The eyes were the worst. Great crimson orbs shot through with streams of silver. He possessed no pupils, no whites.

An hourglass stood on the table. Yellow sand trickled from the top bulb into the bottom. The thin line of sand in the top half left no doubt that Diago had arrived just in time.

A mancala board was placed between the angel and the child. They used brightly colored marbles for their game pieces. The boy was fixated on a large marble that rested in the angel's mancala pit. Diago recognized the marble as a Blood Alley. Guillermo's daughter Ysabel had a similar one, but hers contained swirls of milky white quartz. Unlike Ysabel's marble, this one was as dark as carmine.

Like the eyes of a golden snake.
The thought came from nowhere and gave Diago a jolt.

His heart picked up speed as he finally looked to the child.

My son,
he corrected himself in wonder.
This isn't just any child. He is my son
. No amount of abstract reasoning had prepared Diago for the emotions that assaulted him as he examined the boy. It was one thing to realize he had a child. It was something entirely different to see that child in the flesh for the first time.

A flat cap pushed the boy's thick bangs into his eyes. His hair was as blue-­black as Diago's, but the waves that curled the ends belonged to Candela. The child's magic was as wild as his hair, and tangled around his small body in hues of amber and jade. Another Nefil would easily recognize him as Nefil. To mortals, in spite of the filth, he was simply a beautiful child.

A forest-­green jacket threaded with yellow hung on his thin body; the sleeves were rolled back to his wrists. He clutched a worn rag-­horse with button eyes. The toy had obviously been salvaged from someone's trash. His scabby knees showed more bone than flesh. One sock was rumpled around his ankle, the other clung to his calf, ready to let go its precarious hold and join its mate. The boy was filthy, as if he'd been living on the streets. For all Diago knew, he had been. He had no idea who, if anyone, had cared for him since Candela's death.

Why didn't she tell me? Did she think me so evil that I'd desert him?
He might not have wanted a child, but he certainly wouldn't have run from the responsibility. Not like his father had.

The boy chose a tray and scooped up the marbles. He counted them out and frowned at the board, tapping his fingers against the table in a slow rhythm, like a cat twitching its tail. The familiarity of the motion stunned Diago. He often did the same thing when distracted.

He is mine.
And on the heels of that thought came the obvious:
I have to get him out of here.
He glanced at Miquel again.
I have to get both of them out of here.

“Come in, Diago,” said the angel. “We have been waiting for you.”

Miquel stopped playing and looked up. His dark bangs fell over his forehead, but not before Diago saw the pain that cut crystal tears into his eyes. The last note hung blue and lonely in the air.

Advancing slowly, Diago surveyed the room one last time. When he was sure they were the only occupants, he holstered the gun—­the weapon was useless here. Halfway to the table, he hesitated, torn between going to Miquel and snatching his son away from the angel.

He gauged the distance between him and Miquel, who was less than a metre away. Miquel gave a single shake of his head, discouraging Diago from coming closer.

The last grain of sand fell through the hourglass. The door slammed shut. Diago whirled, reaching for his gun again. He expected to see the two men Doña Rosa had mentioned, but the short hall was empty. His fingers slid from the gun's grip as he turned back to the angel. “Who are you?”

“Beltran Prieto.” The angel tipped his head and spread his hands. “At your ser­vice.”

“That's not your name.”

“It's the only name you'll have from my lips.” He leaned back in his chair and looked toward the door. “Expecting someone?”

“Two men delivered your gift. Where are they?”

“Ah,” Prieto murmured. The marbles clicked together as he placed each one in a pit. He won himself a second turn. “There were no men. Doña Rosa lied to you. Oh, don't look so shocked. José is in a great deal of debt to some rather unscrupulous characters. She was praying for his immortal soul, and I went to her. I promised to remove José's desire to gamble if Doña Rosa told a little white lie and delivered a gift for me.”

The boy offered helpfully, “He appeared to Doña Rosa in church and made her believe she had a vision from God.” When Diago shifted his attention to the child, the boy's cheeks reddened. “He let me watch,” he whispered, his fledgling confidence disappearing beneath Diago's gaze.

“I see.” Diago nodded in what he hoped was a reassuring manner, as he edged closer to his son.

A tremulous smile returned to the boy's mouth.

He wants to be loved so badly
. Diago saw the need in his son's eyes and something tore inside his chest.
If I can just get to him.
He managed to take one more step closer before Miquel warned him with another shake of his head. Diago halted in his tracks.

“A lesson to him.” Prieto pretended to ignore them and considered his next move. “He needs to understand the power of a true angel, one who is not sullied by mortal flesh.” He chose stones from his side of the board. “A lesson Miquel should heed since he refused to arrange a meeting between you and me.” Prieto spared Miquel a quick glare. “He wanted to check with Guillermo first. In the old days, a Nefil would have obeyed me without question, then informed Guillermo. Los Nefilim are becoming arrogant, it seems. What do you know about that, Diago?”

“Nothing. I stay out of their business.”

“Hmm. No pillow talk. That's a shame.” Prieto dropped the marbles into their respective pits. “It's a good thing most mortals still respect us. Those that don't can be bought. I had to pay José for his help, but the expense was worth it. He proved quite clever for a mortal. He waited until his mother left to visit a friend. Then he just announced a phone call from you, and of course, Miquel, knowing how you hate the phone, assumed it was an emergency. José took him down quite skillfully. One punch to the face. Miquel never saw it coming.”

The gouge in the wall by the phone. . .

Miquel looked away, but not before Diago saw his shame. He had been caught off guard by a mortal. The error might have been forgivable in a younger Nefil, but for Miquel, the lapse in judgment was inexcusable.

Prieto said, “He should have done as I asked.” He gestured at Miquel, who took a sharp short breath.

A flash of silver light coursed beneath his skin and through his veins. A sigil spun just over his heart. It was an ugly creation made of jagged lines and serrated edges, like a circular saw blade. Diago recognized it immediately. It was a binding sigil. He knew from experience the agony of such a glyph. Disobedience caused the ward to clench a Nefil's heart, and send electric shocks through the limbs.

Diago took three steps toward Miquel before Prieto's voice stopped him.

“Leave him, Diago. I can make it worse.” Prieto clenched his fist. The sigil burned brighter. Miquel cried out.

“All right!” He halted and snapped the words like bullets. “Stop hurting him!”

Prieto opened his hand. He'd made his point. The sigil disappeared.

Diago's apprehension receded marginally as Miquel took a deep breath.
And what about my son?
He backed up and examined the boy. No silver streaked his veins, nor had Prieto bound him with a sigil. The boy clenched the toy pony's mane and regarded Diago with naked curiosity.

Prieto missed nothing. His tone turned parental as he coaxed the youngster. “Greet your father, Rafael.”

Rafael. The name went through Diago like a shock. Suddenly, he smelled the hard scent of tin—­
and carnations, she kept carnations by the bed
—­and recalled Candela lazily tracing the scars on his chest. The golden snake had slid from her hair to coil over his heart, cool like water, soft like silk. The serpent had watched him with ruby eyes, but Diago had barely been aware of anything other than Candela's voice, murmuring the name she would call her song.

“Rafael,” he said, echoing his memory.

Rafael parted his lips as if he meant to speak. Whatever question poised on his tongue was drowned by the dissonant note of the guitar when it hit the floor.

Miquel stood and shoved the instrument aside with his foot. “Your what?”

Prieto's eerie gaze sparkled with delight. “You never told him?”

Diago's mouth went dry. He willed his brain to think. Fear swallowed his thoughts and gave him nothing in return.
I will lose him over this.

“Told me what?” Miquel's tone grew fierce as he circled the table, moving toward Diago.

Prieto grinned and did nothing to stop Miquel's advance. “That he took a lover. In Triana. What did she call herself there, Diago?”

“Candela,” Diago whispered.

Miquel's voice lowered a notch. “Candela?”

Diago licked his lips. “I knew her in Triana.”

“I heard that part.” Miquel pretended to ignore Prieto's chuckles, but Diago saw each laugh cut Miquel to the heart. He was a proud one, his Miquel. “How could you?”

“She claimed to have a song that would help us.”

“And did she?” Miquel stopped right in front of Diago, his dark eyes ablaze with his fury and pain. “Did she give you your song?”

They were almost nose to nose, but Diago didn't back away from him.
I brought him this pain and, though it will kill me, if he wants to go, I will not stop him.
“She said it would come to me.”

“And so it did.” Prieto snatched the carmine marble from his tray. He held it between finger and thumb, pretending to examine Rafael through the glass. “Forgive him, Miquel. She was an angel. He couldn't have resisted her if he'd wanted to. She enchanted him. Only the angel-­born Nefilim can know the pure of heart, and Diago's daimon nature clouds his eyes. That is his weakness. Our Candela deceived the deceiver.”

Diago locked his knees so he didn't fall. The dance had shifted beneath his feet. Candela was angel? But that couldn't be. Surely he would have recognized her as such . . . or would he? How had she fooled him so thoroughly?

By telling me what I wanted to hear.
She had beguiled him with his own wishes and he had followed her like a lamb.

The feathery brush of fingers against his palm caused Diago to start. He looked down to find Rafael peering up at him.

“Is that true?” he asked. “Are you my papa?”