Where Oblivion Lives Read online

  Dedication

  For my dear friend and mentor,

  Lisa W. Cantrell

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  25 August 1932 1

  2

  3

  4

  28 August 1932 5

  29 August 1932 6

  30 August 1932 7

  8

  31 August 1932 9

  10

  11

  12

  1 September 1932 13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  2 September 1932 22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  By T. Frohock

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Author’s Note

  A quick note on the spellings used: the accepted spelling of the word is Nephilim. However, in Spanish the “ph” sound is replaced by the “f,” hence Los Nefilim.

  This novel is primarily told from the points of view of my Spanish characters, so whenever I needed to use the generic term “Nephilim” to indicate the species of Nephilim as a whole, I use the spelling “nefilim” (the lowercase n is intentional for plural “nefilim” as well as the singular “nefil”).

  I also needed a way in which to distinguish the various nationalities of nefilim within the Inner Guard. Whenever you see capitalization—Los Nefilim, Die Nephilim, or Les Néphilim—I am referring to the different nationalities of Inner Guards—the Spanish, German, and French, respectively.

  —T

  25 August 1932

  it begins with an attack

  1

  Catalonia, Spain

  The town of Santuari

  Diago played a rapid series of staccato chords on the worn piano keys. The upright shuddered under his assault.

  “Come on,” he muttered. He performed another fast run but stopped abruptly, barely resisting the urge to slam the fallboard on the keys. “Damn it.” Glaring at the musical notations penciled across the staves, he reconsidered the heavily revised intro.

  The arrangement wasn’t working. It’s still too clear. Too bright. The composition lacked the dissonance thundering through his dreams and leaving him battered and beaten each dawn.

  He erased his last notation from the score and transposed the minor chords, assessing the change with a critical eye. Somewhere in that profusion of markings and erasures lay a song—one he had to master.

  And soon.

  Otherwise, he had little hope of stopping the psychic attacks causing his nightmares. Re-creating the composition wasn’t his preferred method of hunting, but it gave him a chance to uncover the composer’s unique signature—a leitmotif of sorts—that could lead Diago to a name.

  And if I learn their name, I’ll send them a nightmare they’ll never forget. He placed his pencil on the stand, picked it up, and then set it down again. It was a ritual that had become the equivalent of a nervous tic.

  Of course, the best method was to follow the music’s siren call to its source. Pack a bag, find a ride into Barcelona, and get on a train to . . . where?

  He thought for a moment and then decided, North, yes, north into France. That felt right.

  The mantel clock chimed eleven, jerking him out of the fantasy. Bound by his oath to Los Nefilim, one of the groups that monitored daimonic activity for the angels, he wasn’t free to leave Santuari on a whim.

  So I improvise. He turned his attention back to the score. Reaching for the pencil, he caught himself before he could pick it up and folded his arms across his stomach.

  If he intended to succeed, he had to relax and reconstruct the dream. Lucid dreaming. That’s what I need to do.

  Closing his eyes, he took several calming breaths. Swathed in darkness, he listened for the opening passage. Just as he teetered on the verge of sleep, he caught the violin’s distant strains teasing their way into his brain.

  It’s my lost Stradivarius—I know its voice like I know my own.

  The music gained resonance as the composition took form. It’s written for a violin and begins with an attack and punch against the strings—three quick jabs of the bow—strike, strike, strike—followed by a pull to slur the chords—

  Now he had it. If he affected a portamento, he might avoid the nightmare while holding on to the nocturne, but then . . .

  The front door shut, startling him out of the dream. As he straightened, his arm knocked the sheet from the upright’s music stand.

  The page fluttered across the floor to land in the foyer in front of Miquel’s dusty boots. A predawn phone call had sent him on some errand for Guillermo, and he hadn’t taken the time to shave, so a shadow of stubble darkened his face. The summer sun he loved so much had deepened his skin to a smoky brown full of warm undertones. Curls as black as his eyes gave him a carefree look that wasn’t mirrored by his expression. Although he was almost a full century younger than Diago, neither of them appeared to be a day over forty.

  It’s our memories that make us old, Diago thought as he struggled to awaken from his impromptu nap. He rubbed his eyes and muttered, “You’re home early.”

  “It’s after noon, sleepyhead.” Miquel knelt and retrieved the paper.

  “It can’t be, it’s only”—Diago turned to the clock—“noon,” he whispered. Where had the hour gone?

  “Diago?” Miquel scowled at the score.

  “Hmm?”

  “What is this?”

  “It’s something I’m working on.”

  “You’re supposed to be working on the composition for the Key. This is . . .” He glanced at the page and winced as if hearing the discordant song in his head. “Jesus, I don’t even know what this is, but it’s not the Key.”

  Diago looked away, hating the guilt he felt when Miquel caught him shirking his responsibilities to Los Nefilim. “Do you really believe nefilim will ever open the dimensions as the angels do?” He stood and reached for the page. “The Key is our Philosopher’s Stone, Miquel—it’s a fable. It doesn’t exist.”

  Miquel lifted the score out of reach. “How can you say that? You found it once already. You unlocked the path between the realms.”

  “We think I did in a past incarnation,” Diago was quick to point out. “None of us recall the details of what happened in that life—not until the right trigger revives our memories, and I haven’t found my catalyst for that incarnation, and until I do, I’m working on this.” He snatched the sheet from Miquel’s hand and slammed it on the piano’s top board with more force than he intended.

  Anger ignited in Miquel’s black eyes—there and gone so quick anyone else might have missed it, except Diago knew his husband’s moods as clearly as his own. Nor did he fail to note the warning in Miquel’s voice. “You’re not on your own anymore, Diago. You can’t just drift through your days like a rogue. You took an oath to Guillermo, and the job he gave you was to compose the Key. At least pretend like you care.”

  The sharp words worked like a slap. Christ, what’s wrong with me? Diago struggled to calm himself. One of us has to back down or we’re going to fight. And he hated fighting with Miquel.

  Taking a steadying breath, he worked hard to moderate his tone. “It’s not that I don’t care.” He forced himself to meet Miquel’s gaze. “I do.”

  “Even though it’s a fable?”

  “I didn’t mean that.” Or did I? How many incarnations ha
d they chased that secret song only to fail again and again? Too many. And still we cling to the hope of composing it.

  But he didn’t say that. Instead, he went to the couch and sat, pressing the heels of his palms against his forehead to block out the world. “It’s just some days it feels like busywork . . . like I’m chasing smoke . . . when there are more important things to do.” Like finding the musician who tortures me with my own violin.

  For several moments, the only sound was the ticking of the clock. Then the soft tread of Miquel’s footsteps moved to the couch. The worn cushions sank beneath his husband’s weight.

  “We’ve started badly today,” Miquel said gently. “And that’s my fault.”

  “I didn’t help the situation,” Diago admitted, and as he did, he felt the tension ease between them. “I’m sorry. I’m just so frustrated.”

  Miquel placed his palm on Diago’s back and drew him close. “I know the nightmares are bad, but there is something else going on with you. What is it? Talk to me.”

  Diago dropped his hands and stared at a coloring book that their son, Rafael, had left on the table. Magic Words was the title. He wondered if Miquel’s magic words—talk to me—were in the book.

  They should be. No one else possessed the skill to pry Diago from his black moods like his husband. “I can’t concentrate on the Key, or on that composition”—he gestured at the piano—“or . . . anything. The nightmares are part of it. I mean an occasional bad dream is normal, but a fortnight of them? It’s unprecedented . . .” Even for me.

  Miquel took his hand. “Guillermo has his people searching for the violin.” He kissed Diago’s palm. “He’s as worried about you as I am. Whoever is causing this, we will find them.”

  “And what do we do in the meantime?”

  “We wait.”

  “Waiting isn’t an option. What if they try to attack Santuari with that violin? We both know there are nefilim close to Guillermo who still don’t trust me.” Born of angel and daimon, Diago’s mixed heritage made him a rarity among the nefilim. But rather than acceptance by both sides, his lineage earned him nothing but mistrust. “You realize that because this person is using my Stradivarius, any sigil they produce will carry a portion of my aura and magic. They could easily make it appear as if I’m attacking Los Nefilim from behind its own wards.”

  Miquel opened his mouth, but Diago rushed on, not giving him a chance to speak.

  “Let’s take it one step further.” He twisted on the couch so he could face his husband. “If I’m implicated, those members who don’t trust me will believe you covered for me. What will we do if we lose our places here? Without the protection of Los Nefilim, we’ll stand no chance to protect Rafael against his daimonic kin. He’s only seven. We both know they will twist his heart and mind to suit their prejudices, like they tried to do to me.”

  Miquel took Diago’s face between his palms. “Diago, let’s not go any more steps—”

  How can I convince him? He sees no danger for himself, because he thinks Los Nefilim can protect us from every threat. “I’m just saying there is more than one way to destroy someone, and if someone is after me, they’ll take you down, too—”

  “—you’ve got to stop—”

  “I’m afraid.”

  The admission fell like a stone between them. Diago lowered his eyes, ashamed of his weakness. “In all the centuries we’ve lived, we’ve never had so much at stake as we do now,” he whispered, thinking of Rafael.

  Miquel’s sigh came like a calm breeze after the storm. “Oh, my bright star, I understand. Really, I do. I know you’re feeling helpless right now.”

  “That’s just it. I’m not helpless. If I could just leave—”

  “But you can’t. Okay? You just have to accept that. For once in your life, you must allow other people to do the footwork that you used to do.” He bent forward until their foreheads touched. “You have to keep telling yourself that you’re not alone, even if it might feel like it.”

  “I’m sorry.” Diago grasped his husband’s wrists and held tight. “I am so terrified of making a mistake that will cause me to lose you and Rafael.”

  “You’re not going to make a mistake like that,” Miquel assured him. His grip remained as steady as his words. “You do your part and work on the Key, and we’ll do ours to keep the doubters in line until you’ve had a chance to win them. It’s a balancing act we’ve performed before. Trust me?”

  “Always,” Diago breathed. The tightness in his chest eased somewhat. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’ve got to learn to let other people help me. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

  Miquel kissed him. “Good. Then trust me when I say we’re going to get through this.”

  Diago nodded and pulled away. As he did, he noticed a light spray of blood on the collar of Miquel’s shirt. He touched the crimson stains. “Did you cut yourself?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Did he cut someone else? “Is something going on, Miquel?”

  “Yes, and that’s all I can say right now.”

  Diago suddenly paired the blood with the predawn phone call—Miquel had obviously been summoned to arrest another nefil. And if Miquel was called in to make the arrest, it had to be someone important and nearby. But who? And why?

  Cautious now, Diago asked, “What’s happening?”

  A note of warning touched Miquel’s voice. “Don’t ask questions. I can’t say anything yet. Not until a few people in Guillermo’s circle have been informed. Once they know, you will know.”

  Before Diago could figure a way to pry the information from him, the phone rang. He leaned over Miquel and picked up the handset. “Yes?”

  “Diago?” It was Guillermo’s secretary, Suero. “Don Guillermo wants you to come to his office.”

  “Me? When?”

  “As soon as you can get here.”

  “Why? Suero? What does he need? Don’t hang up—”

  “Salut!”

  “—on me.”

  The line buzzed in his ear.

  “What’s the matter?” Miquel asked.

  “He hung up on me again.”

  Miquel shrugged. “He hangs up on everyone. You should be used to that by now.”

  “I’m used to it. I still don’t like it.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Guillermo wants to talk to me.” He watched Miquel’s reaction carefully, but his husband didn’t seem disquieted by the announcement. I’ll take that as a sign that I’m not in trouble. Unless Guillermo wanted a report on the composition for the Key. Then I might be in trouble.

  “I’ll walk with you.” Miquel rose and followed Diago outside. “Because I want you to see Juanita while you’re there.” Guillermo’s wife saw to Los Nefilim’s medical care, attending their unique physiology with her treatments. “You can’t keep going like this.”

  Diago balked at the suggestion. “I have to be in a lot of pain to see Juanita.” And he wasn’t quite sure he’d reached that level of fatigue yet.

  “Your pain is my pain, and right now, I’m in pain, because I’m worried about you. So you will talk to her. Maybe she can give you something to help you sleep. Please—promise me you’ll see her.”

  The concern in his husband’s voice robbed Diago of any further arguments. “Okay, I promise.”

  “Good.”

  They walked across the grounds in silence for several moments before Diago found the courage to ask, “What if I can’t remember the Key, Miquel? What happens then?”

  Miquel put his arm around Diago’s shoulders and drew him close. “Rafael will still love you. I will still love you. That is what will happen. We will love you if you bring the stars down on our heads.”

  “You are a fool,” Diago muttered.

  “Just for you.”

  2

  They crested the knoll and reached the narrow lane leading to Guillermo’s house. Stately cypress trees graced the rear corners of the home, rising past the asymmetrical roofline. Iv
y-coated arcades and elegant balconies softened the severe lines that made the stone structure seem more like a fortress than a farmhouse.

  Diago’s gaze traveled from the house to the village. He checked his watch. School would let out at one for the midday meal, and he had no idea how long his meeting with Guillermo might last.

  Miquel seemed to read his mind. “I’ll get Rafael when school ends.” He touched his index finger to Diago’s chest, just over his heart. It was a casual gesture, their equivalent of a peck on the cheek, but it meant the world to Diago at the moment. “I’ll meet you here in an hour.”

  “Okay.”

  Miquel continued on the road toward the small cluster of buildings that composed the town of Santuari. There, the inhabitants moved about on various errands as they worked together to create a self-sustaining stronghold near the city of Barcelona.

  The compound covered three hectares of land that Guillermo had gradually claimed over the centuries. In addition to giving his nefilim a place to call home, the expansive holdings allowed him to penetrate Catalonia’s high society with ease.

  A few mortals, indistinguishable from the nefilim, also moved through the village on business, unaware of the supernatural creatures surrounding them. Far outnumbered by mortals, the nefilim remained inconspicuous as a matter of self-preservation. They’d learned hard lessons about mortal fear and aggression during the Inquisition and similar purges.

  Diago stepped onto the path to Guillermo’s house and passed beneath the shade of an ornamental arbor. Insects hummed lazily in the heat of the day. Their chorus soothed him and kept time with the crunch of gravel beneath his shoes. The violin rode in on a cricket’s chirrup and once more tickled the back of his mind.

  The intro rose and fell before slurring into decay. The melody floated gray and soft like fog . . . No. Not fog—the smell of cordite is too strong. It’s . . .