Los Nefilim Book 4 (5 page)

Diago brushed a curl from the child's eyelashes. The hope in Rafael's eyes tore Diago's heart. He knew what it was to be abandoned and alone. And on the heels of that thought came another: what about his own father, the man he'd hated for so long? Had he even known about Diago? Or had he been clueless about his son's birth, the same as Diago hadn't known about Rafael? Diago tucked those questions away. He would examine them later in the light, but not now. In this moment, he needed to acknowledge his own son. “It's true. You're mine.”

Rafael twined his fingers with Diago's. “May I live with you?”

Diago touched Miquel's wrist in order to get his attention. Miquel didn't pull away, but he didn't acknowledge Diago's touch either.

Diago wished for the privacy Prieto wouldn't give them. He lowered his voice. “I won't leave him like my father left me. If you don't want to stay—­”
I will sorrow for ten thousand years.
Diago swallowed hard. “I'll understand.”

Miquel made no sign he heard. He glared at Prieto, his fists working at his sides. Afraid that he might forget himself and attack the angel, Diago eased in front of him, although it meant putting his back to Prieto. He waited until Miquel met his gaze before he mouthed:
Please
.
I need you.

Rafael wiped the corner of his eye with the sleeve of his coat. “I don't want to go back to Sister Benita.”

“You won't,” Miquel snapped.

Diago released the breath he'd been unaware of holding. He clutched Rafael's hand and maneuvered the child between them.

“That's so sweet.” Prieto rolled the red marble beneath his palm in small circular motions. “But you won't get to keep him, Diago. He's ours. Candela hid him from us. We were looking in Sevilla, but here he was in Barcelona, tucked behind the black skirts of the nuns. Such a waste.” He ran his tongue over his upper lip. “Sister Benita was more than happy to turn him over to me. She thinks he is the devil's son. I made sure she knew he was merely a daimon.” Prieto chucked at his own joke.

“You think this is funny?” Miquel turned his rage on Prieto. “If what you're saying is true, Candela took her mortal form and raped him.”

Diago felt like he'd been punched. “What?” He instinctively put his hand over Rafael's ear. The child didn't need to hear this. Diago wasn't sure
he
wanted to hear it. How had a tryst turned into rape?

The soul of reason, Miquel asked, “Would you have done it if she had not enchanted you?”

“Of course not.” Or was that true? Diago wasn't sure of anything anymore. At the time, he had thought himself perfectly in control of the situation with Candela, but that could have easily been part of her spell. And even if he wouldn't have had sex with her without an enchantment, what were the ramifications of such an admission in front of Rafael? The child was only six; how much did he understand? Diago pointedly looked down at the boy, and when he met Miquel's gaze again, he saw most of the anger had bled from Miquel's face and was replaced by ruthless cunning.

Damn him
. Miquel had provoked that response on purpose. “Why did you do that?”

“I had to know the truth.”

“Am I such a liar that you have to test me?”

Miquel didn't answer. Diago knuckled down on the hard knot of hurt that settled in his gut, because he knew the answer. This was a conversation they would have in private. Later.

If there
was
a later.

Diago noticed that Prieto seemed to be enjoying the exchange and was in no hurry to move them along. What was he waiting for? He allowed them to be distracted with a quarrel—­for what? To test their allegiance to one another? Diago looked back to the table for some clue. While he and Miquel had been engaged in their argument, Prieto had flipped the hourglass again. The time. Prieto was in no hurry, because he awaited the proper hour.
But to do what?

So Diago asked. “What do you want, Prieto? You didn't stage this little drama for your own amusement. You need something from me, or we wouldn't be here.”

Prieto's eyes swirled with malice. “What do I want? Only that which you alone can give, Diago. I want your firstborn son.”

“
What?
”

Miquel took a step toward the table. “This is sadistic.”

“No,” Prieto said. “I am many things, but I am not a sadist. This task gives me no pleasure whatsoever. The daimons are using their Nefilim to incite the mortals into a second world war. The daimons don't care who wins, they simply want to feed on more mortal hate. We cannot stop the humans from savaging one another again, but we can mitigate the damage and bring the war to a stop within a reasonable period. My orders are to bring back the weapon that will end the conflict at the right time.”

“What is a reasonable amount of time?” Miquel asked as he sidled between Diago and Prieto.

Prieto took up the red marble. “Four, maybe five mortal years. Less than a minute to the angels. An hour to Los Nefilim.” He rolled the marble across his fingers in a balancing game.

Rafael peeked at Prieto. “That is mine,” he said, indicating the marble.

Diago rested his hand on the boy's head in order to acknowledge his words, but he didn't answer him. He directed his question to Prieto. “What do you need me to do?”

“It's very simple, Diago. Moloch has a coin, a very special coin, one that we require.”

“Moloch.” Diago murmured the name through numb lips. Guillermo had faced the daimon Moloch on the battlefield once and still carried the scars of that fight. A daimon of war, Moloch's renown for engineering new ways for mortals to murder one another reached greater pinnacles with each technological advancement. “Moloch doesn't hoard money.”

“Moloch hoards death.” Prieto tossed the marble into the air and caught it while fixing his horrific eyes on Rafael. “The coin you're going to bring me represents an idea, a concept, one that we need to implant in a mortal's mind so that he might develop the weapon.”

“This idea is about murder,” Diago said.

“But not as an act of evil,” said the angel.

“Not if you do it,” Diago retorted.

“I detect sarcasm, Diago.” Prieto touched his chest where his heart might have been if he was human. “I'm hurt.”

Diago scoffed. “And what is the price for this coin? This idea? What does it have to do with Rafael?”

“Moloch is hungry.”

Diago's stomach lurched in a slow somersault. Now it all fell together. In the days of Solomon, the ­people had sacrificed their children to Moloch in order to buy peace. Diago's fingers unconsciously tightened on Rafael's shoulder. “No.”

“He demands a sacrifice,” said Prieto. “He wants the child of a Nefil.”

Diago shook his head. “I have done terrible things, but not this. This I will not do.”

Prieto pursed his lips and dropped the marble into the tray. “We have exhausted every option in our negotiations. This world war can last for four years or four decades. You remember the Inquisition, Diago. How long do you want them to suffer? For every year the mortal war drags on, the daimons feed on misery, and that simply whets their appetite for more. The daimons' power will grow. We must give Moloch what he wants.”

“No.
You
have to give him what he wants. I don't owe Moloch a God damn thing.”

“The parent must give the child. No one else has the right. Those have always been Moloch's terms. He is as intractable as he is ancient. It's a small sacrifice. One life for the good of the many. You are the one who is always crying for peace, Diago. Are you willing to pay the price?”

Diago barked an incredulous laugh at the audacity of the question. “No. I refuse.”

Prieto's humor vanished. He utilized all three sets of his vocal chords. “I won't be disobeyed.”

The sound plummeted through Diago and into his bones. Rafael clamped his hands over his ears. The stuffed horse flopped in the crook of his arm. Miquel flinched from the sound. He placed his hand over Diago's and linked their fingers together, giving Diago a gentle squeeze. It was a conciliatory gesture, an old signal between them, one that asked for forgiveness for his earlier harsh words.

Relieved, Diago returned the gesture. Together they shielded Rafael from the angel.

The silver threads in Prieto's eyes swirled. He was furious. “Candela lied. There is no song, Diago. Not in that child, or any other. He is a
sacrifice
. Candela was supposed to give him to Moloch, but she wore her mortal body too long. Her emotions interfered with her ability to complete the act. She hid the boy and destroyed herself before we could find him.”

Rafael buried his face in Diago's coat. A low whine escaped his throat in a melody of grief and fear and anger.

Diago hugged the child against his leg. Hoping to mitigate Rafael's sorrow, he said, “You're lying.”

“Everything dies, Diago, even the angels.”

Diago barely heard him. Movement within the hourglass caught his attention. A low rumble pulsed through the floorboards. The base of the hourglass rattled against the tabletop. Yellow sand swirled in miniature tornados, gusts and twirls made to dance to a hidden rhythm. The reverberations beneath Diago's soles grew stronger. The table shook. The mancala board rattled to the edge and tipped over, spilling the marbles to the floor.

The carmine marble rolled toward them. Miquel knelt and scooped it into his hand. Rafael didn't notice. The child's terror held him rigid at Diago's side. Miquel passed the marble to Diago. He dropped it into his pocket without taking his gaze off the hourglass.

The sand danced, coalescing into a single funnel that spun toward the upper chamber. Prieto stood and unfurled three sets of silver wings that descended down his back. The colors in his eyes whirled like the dangerous clouds before a storm. A great wind filled the room and drove Prieto's illusions into the mists.

Diago hummed a chord. He thrust it into his throat like a vicious cry. Miquel joined Diago's voice with his own. Their souls mingled as one, and Diago took courage from Miquel's presence. He traced a glyph of protection into the air. The sigil glowed with silver radiance to spin like a top. The lines merged to form a shield of light between them and Prieto.

Prieto spoke a word and the sigil over Miquel's heart blazed. Miquel choked on his song and staggered. Diago caught his arm but couldn't prevent Miquel from falling to one knee. The protective sigil faded on the strength of Diago's voice alone, breaking apart and falling like shimmering flakes of snow.

Enraged by his inability to protect them, Diago shouted his frustration at the angel. “Let them go and I will give myself to Moloch!”

“You? What do you have to offer Moloch? Your innocence?” The angel sneered. “Your innocence died in the days of Solomon when you betrayed your king. You have nothing to give Moloch but your son. And that you
will
do.”

Before Diago could retort, Prieto reverted to the language of the angels, and the ethereal vibrations shattered the realm in which they stood. Diago's teeth ached from the pressure in his head. His flesh flattened against muscle and bone. All around them, the images of walls and wood bent against time and space, as if they had been thrown into a surrealist painting where the colors bled hot upon the canvas.

Rafael screamed. Diago went to his knees beside the boy and pulled him close, but he didn't let go of Miquel. To Diago's relief, Miquel's strong fingers grasped his wrist. Rafael's arms encircled Diago's neck. The little stuffed horse was squashed between them. In spite of the gale threatening to tear the three of them apart, they held onto one another.

The wind sculpted the walls into a tunnel made of steel and concrete. Girders shrieked and the stone groaned. The tempest gradually died. Diago opened his eyes. They were on a subway platform. There were no exits. A train waited on the tracks, hissing as if it was a great silver dragon seething in pain.

Prieto held up the hourglass. The sand had collected in the upper chamber, suspended there by Prieto's will. “I can go no farther into the daimons' realm without violating our treaties. The train will deliver you to Moloch. Get on.”

Diago managed to get one shaking leg beneath him. He had no idea what he intended to do, but right now, he wanted nothing more than to be away from Prieto.

Rafael clung to him, forcing Diago to let go of Miquel, or risk falling on them both. He rose slowly. The boy's heart beat quick and hard.

Diago tightened his arms around Rafael and whispered against his ear, “Trust me.”

The boy shuddered.

Miquel stood and placed himself between them and Prieto. “You can't ask him to do this.”

Prieto's smiles were gone. “That's where you're wrong—­I'm not asking. You have two hours.” He pointed at Miquel. “Or the sigil explodes, and with it, his heart. And should Miquel decide to be noble and sacrifice himself for the child, know this, Diago: if you fail, I will take Rafael from you and keep the boy with me. You can't hide him. I found him once, I'll find him again. And we will play this game over and over until I win.” He scraped one long nail against the hourglass. The sand began to run. “The clock is ticking,” he said.

Horrified by the angel's game, Diago snagged Miquel's sleeve with his fingertips. The brief contact was enough to get Miquel on the move. The train's doors shut behind them when they boarded. Diago glimpsed the platform through the window. Prieto was gone.

The train rolled forward. Diago would have fallen with Rafael in his arms if Miquel hadn't caught him and pushed them into a nearby seat. Still in shock from the encounter with Prieto, Rafael clung to Diago's neck and made no sound. Diago rubbed his back gently as he used to do for Ysabel when she was afraid.