Los Nefilim Book 4 (7 page)

The teardrop split neatly in half, like a pair of carmine eyes. Diago half expected them to magically twinkle with Candela's mischief. Rafael hummed a mellow note. His aura passed through his lips in shades of green and amber. The breath of his magic swirled around the ruby eyes and became a small golden snake.

Rafael kissed his finger and pressed it to the snake's head. “Watch over my papa.”

The snake slithered up Diago's arm to encircle his throat before it tickled his neck and coiled behind his ear. He felt the soft scales against his skin and realized this tiny spell didn't have the sophistication of Candela's magic, but Rafael's enchantment didn't need that level of refinement. He wasn't trying to deceive or lure Diago into acting against his will. This was a friend to carry, much like he had given up Aurelius to comfort the golem.

Impulsively, Rafael threw his arms around Diago's neck and kissed his cheek. Diago felt the warmth of a child he barely knew touch his soul, and that gave him the courage he needed to pick up the golem and stand.

Rafael hugged Diago's coat around him and returned to the far wall where he squatted with his back to the cold concrete. He gave Diago a small hesitant wave.

If we survive this, I'll do the best I can by you. I swear it.
Diago returned Rafael's shy wave with one of his own, before he and Miquel descended back down to the sewer.

The thin slats that formed the golem's legs bounced limply against Diago's thigh. One of the shoes fell off. Miquel quickly reattached it and made sure the laces were knotted more firmly.

The golem was heavier than the sticks and clothes made it appear. Miquel had given it weight in order to fool Moloch, but it also meant the thing would be a burden to carry.

At the door, Miquel held the golem while Diago slipped through first. Miquel passed the creature back to Diago, who stood and gazed down the lit passageway again.

Miquel joined him on the walkway. He scanned the filth and discarded toys with contempt. “Moloch must lure them somehow. Look.” He nudged a porcelain doll's head with his foot; the painted face wept tears of mud. “I haven't seen one of those since the sixteenth century.” He glared down the tunnel. “How long has he been down here?”

“Want me to ask him?”

“Don't be an asshole.” Miquel turned back to Diago and caressed his ear where Rafael's snake curled around his earlobe. “I'm not worried, you know.”

“I'm glad one of us isn't.”

“We've been through much worse than this.”

“You always say that, and I'm always hard-­pressed to remember just when.”

Miquel slipped his hand behind Diago's head and kissed him hard and fast. Just as their lips parted, he whispered, “I love you.”

Diago nodded, because for a moment, he didn't have the breath for anything more. “I'll be back for you.”

“I know you will.” He offered the gun.

Diago shook his head. “The knife will do. There's another magazine.” He nodded at his left hip and Miquel liberated the silver tips from Diago's pocket. They didn't say good-­bye. They never did. It always seemed so final, and Miquel feared “good-­bye” might jinx them, so Diago said, “Watch for me.”

“I will.”

Without another word, he settled the golem firmly on his hip, and set off toward the lights. The golem leaned its head on Diago's shoulder. The stink of the thing roiled his stomach.

Where the tunnels branched, Diago used the narrow footbridge to cross. He didn't want to risk stepping across and losing his footing. If he stumbled and shattered the golem, there wasn't time to make another.

Several minutes later, he reached a bend in the tunnel. He glanced back. Miquel was gone. Diago licked dry lips and started walking again.

The passage seemed to go on forever. Overhead, the lights sputtered and left thick pools of darkness where the footing was treacherous. Diago lost all track of time—­other than to know it was passing for Miquel—­as he negotiated the narrow walkway and followed the lights. The pounding drums began to sound like the second hand of a clock, ticking away in the night.

Eventually, the scent of smoke tickled his nostrils as he drew close to Moloch's lair. The tunnel developed into a gradual incline and grew wider. The trough became shallow and soon disappeared, leaving a smooth floor beneath Diago's feet. All around him, hues of orange and yellow supplemented the harsh electric light. The air grew warmer until it became as hot as a summer day. The stench of rotting corpses gagged him. Diago found it hard to pull a clean breath into his body.

The golem squirmed in his arms. “I love you,” it mumbled with a hoarse voice.

“Oh, sweet Jesus.” Diago put his palm over the golem's face, not so much to shield it from what was to come, but to prevent Moloch from seeing it clearly. Regardless of his intentions, the motion seemed to soothe the golem. It clutched the stuffed horse and shivered less. If Diago merely glanced at the creature, he almost believed that he held Rafael. Maybe it would fool Moloch after all.

Diago held onto that hope as he rounded another bend. The passage opened into a cavernous room. Fire and electric light joined together to cast hellish shadows against the walls. Narrow stairs led up to a catwalk over seven metres off the ground. The catwalk spanned the greater part of the room and ended at an iron stage on the far side of the chamber.

Mounted in the center of the stage was a bronze statue with a bull's head and a man's torso. Twin tanks took the place of lions at either arm of the figure's throne. The wings of biplanes curved upward from the effigy's back. A string of hollowed bombs formed a necklace, and machine-­gun turrets fashioned the crown. In the center of the statue's chest was an open door. Flames burned inside the cavity. The arms were held out, palms up, ready to accept the offering.

Through the metal latticework of the stairs and platform, Diago saw two
‘aulaqs
near the statue. He recognized the shorter male and the one-­armed female from the train. The male's flesh had been burned from his back and thighs, leaving puckered scar tissue instead of skin. He pushed a coal cart filled with the severed limbs of corpses, which had probably been scavenged from Barcelona's tombs and graveyards. The male stopped next to the statue's massive hands. The female helped him load the body parts onto the upturned palms. When the hands were full, the two
‘aulaqs
pulled the chains that lifted the sacrifice into the open furnace.

Moloch needed to feed, and while the dead did not give him the same energy as a living sacrifice, the corpses prevented him from starving to death. The daimon was out of sight, but Diago had no doubt he was somewhere near the effigy, where he could inhale the smoke from the burning corpses.

The tall scarred
‘aulaq
that had almost followed them off the train was absent. Diago looked around the room. The missing vampire bothered Diago. The
‘aulaqs
traveled in packs, so the third one should be somewhere close.
But where?
Diago stared into the darkness. Nothing moved but shadows. If the third
‘aulaq
had backtracked to Miquel and Rafael, Miquel would deal with him; of that, Diago had little doubt.

As it was, he couldn't linger any longer. Not with time ticking against him. The metal walkway shuddered beneath his feet as he climbed the steel steps and mounted the catwalk. Far ahead, the female
‘aulaq
stepped away from the effigy, and Diago finally saw Moloch. Unmindful of the heat, the daimon stroked the statue's knee and cooed in a language so ancient that even Diago didn't recognize the syntax.

Halting halfway between the stairs and the statue, Diago waited for the daimon to recognize his presence. Moloch took his time. When he finally turned around, he trailed his fingers over the effigy's knee as if they were lovers interrupted.

Made with thin legs and thin arms, Moloch was a brittle stickman who was no man at all. His elongated skull and pointed chin were more pronounced than those of his
‘aulaqs,
which were merely pale reflections of their master. The daimon's eyes were the color of smoke and nickel, white eyes, as if he had no eyes at all.

Dressed in a ragged robe, his only ornament was a leather pouch that hung around his neck. Moloch grinned around sharp teeth. “You came. Prieto said you wouldn't, but I knew you would.” He extended one clawed hand, as if he could reach across the distance between them. “And you brought him.”

Diago glanced at the golem. Rafael looked up at him. Diago's heart stuttered. Had he gone mad?

Then the golem blinked, its countenance listless, nothing like Rafael's expressive features. Diago's pulse slowed. Miquel's magic had finally taken hold. From the top of his head down to his mismatched shoes, the golem looked exactly like Rafael. As disconcerting as the resemblance was, Diago felt a small measure of relief. This might work, after all.

Moloch tapped his long claws together and licked his lips with a pale tongue. “Oh, Diago, I've always known you were one of us.”

 

Chapter Five

R
afael sniffed the collar of his papa's coat and smelled the spicy odor of his sweat. Excitement tickled his belly. How many nights had he gone to sleep dreaming of being rescued from the nuns and their harsh voices full of fear? More than he could count. More than one hundred and one nights, or a thousand nights, or ten thousand nights, and more than he thought he could bear. His mamá had promised him that when he found his papa, he would finally be safe. Now they were together, and Rafael would never have to face Sister Benita or the other sisters again.

He tugged the coat around him. Something heavy caused the garment to hang to the left. Rafael reached inside the pocket and allowed his fingers to travel over the rectangular shape. The sensation of his father's warm magic bled through the paper. Rafael peeked into the pocket to find a thin ray of silver, gleaming in the pallid light. Was his papa rich?

A quick glance at the stairwell assured him that Miquel had not returned, so Rafael enlarged the opening to reveal the box Señor Prieto had given to Doña Rosa. A drop of blood from the cut on his hand smeared across the glass. Rafael tried to wipe away the smudge, but he merely succeeded in dirtying the glass even more. He smoothed the paper over the box, then took his hand from the pocket. Maybe Papa wouldn't notice the dirt, or if he did, maybe he wouldn't think that Rafael had made the mess. He didn't want to make Papa angry, so he formulated the lie he would tell about how the box got dirty. Sister Benita had taught him—­indirectly—­to always have a lie prepared in advance, because any hesitation on his part meant an extra whack from her ruler.

The sound of Miquel's footsteps startled Rafael. The top of Miquel's head came into view. He paused on the stairs and looked down as if he was examining something at his feet.

Curious to know what Miquel might be looking at, Rafael stood quietly. He was very good at being quiet, because Sister Benita could hear pins drop on angels' heads, or something like that. Rafael could never remember exactly how the saying went, because Sister Benita usually delivered her speeches while waving a ruler in his face, and the ruler always distracted him.

Miquel's breathing was labored like when Señor Prieto had placed the sigil over his heart, and that wasn't good. Rafael had worried that Miquel might die, but Señor Prieto had promised that as long as Papa did the right thing, Miquel would be fine.

Miquel certainly didn't look fine. Rafael's heart kicked up a notch when the older Nefil stumbled over the top step. He righted himself and pressed his palm against the wall. Color returned to his cheeks and the episode seemed to pass. Rafael remembered the hourglass, and Señor Prieto telling them they had two hours. Had it been two hours? Miquel offered Rafael a wan smile that did nothing to reassure the youngster. He came to Rafael's side without further incident and sat with his back against the wall.

A gentle tug on Rafael's coat sleeve was all it took for Rafael to sit and lean against Miquel. He jammed his hand back into the coat pocket and fingered the mirrored casket, not caring if he tore the paper. He needed something to hold.

Miquel put his arm around Rafael and pulled him close. “Now we wait. Be very still and quiet.”

The gun rested in Miquel's lap, alongside a magazine that held more bullets. Entranced by the blue metal and the lingering remnants of his father's aura around the grip, Rafael tentatively touched the gun. Miquel moved the weapon out of Rafael's reach, but not before Rafael noticed the beat of Miquel's pulse against his wrist. His heart pounded very fast, like Rafael's did when he knew he was in trouble with Sister Benita, only Miquel wasn't frightened. Nothing seemed to scare him. He had fought Señor Prieto, and although Miquel lost, he had caused Señor Prieto to be afraid for just a moment. The thin lines of silver in Señor Prieto's eyes had constricted until they were almost nonexistent, just like Mamá's eyes changed when she was afraid.

Rafael was sure that Miquel's fast heart had nothing to do with fear. Something else was wrong, and Rafael suspected it had to do with the sigil. He touched Miquel's wrist.

Instead of pulling away, Miquel hugged Rafael a little tighter. “I'm all right.”

That was a grownup lie, like when Sister Benita said that she would forgive Rafael as long as he told the truth, but then punished him anyway. The only difference was that Rafael knew Miquel wasn't trying to trick him, so he nodded even though he could see that Miquel wasn't all right.

Gently, so as not to disturb Miquel, Rafael pulled the box from his pocket and peeled it free from the paper. He ran his thumb over the figure of his mother and tried to remember her face, but her features were lost in the mists of his memories. His stomach ached with grief.

He hugged the box to his chest and snuggled closer to Miquel's warmth, his gaze locked on the stairwell. He recalled summer evenings when the heat faded from the day. He and Mamá had danced to a phonograph record made more of scratches than music. Mamá taught Rafael to listen past the record's defects to find the strains of the guitars.

Listen to the music, Rafael. The guitarist tells you what you must do. Let him move you. Trust your body.

He could almost hear the record now, a distant rhythm that pulsed quick and hard. Rafael tightened his grip on the box and closed his eyes. He dozed and dreamed that the golden serpents on the mirrored box came to life. The three snakes slithered from their places and coiled together to become one mighty serpent. The magical snake crawled off the glass and onto the back of Rafael's hand. From there, it climbed through the folds of his ragged clothes to reach his mouth.

As the snake slipped through Rafael's parted lips, a different music chimed through his dreams. The notes were more ethereal, like the sound of rain, or of stars sighing in the night. Rafael inhaled and, in doing so, he took the magic into his soul.

Listen,
Mamá had said.
Trust your body.