The Second Death by T. Frohock

and my daughter, I would. No one wants a child to die early in their firstborn life.” Such an experience subverted a clean transition to their next incarnation and stunted the Nefil’s emotional growth. More than that, though, even knowing a child would have another life made the loss no easier for the parent to bear.
    Miquel produced Rafael’s button from his pocket. “Let’s see if we can find him.”
    Guillermo put his hand over Miquel’s fist. “No magic. Not yet. They might sense our presence and we’re outnumbered. Give Sofia and her Nefilim time to work. Let’s take a walk. If anyone challenges us, we’re here to make a delivery.” He raised the clipboard. “And we got lost.”
    Avoiding the busy kitchen, Guillermo walked deeper into the complex. The sigils overhead grew louder and more disorienting with every step. At times, the sound of Die Nephilim’s thunderous song almost drowned the voices of mortals.
    Guillermo found a door and turned the doorknob. It was locked. He pulled a thin wire from his pocket and quickly picked the flimsy mechanism. That one was easy. He doubted he’d find the inside locks as simple to navigate, but complex problems had never stopped him in the past.
    He and Miquel slipped inside and found themselves in a storage room. Bedding and pillows rose from the darkness—­neatly folded rectangles of blankets and sheets occupied every shelf. Inside, Die Nephilim’s song was muted, the chords dampened by the mortal thoughts that whispered through the walls.
    Guillermo wound his way past rows of shelving until he found the door that led into the corridor. He waited for two nuns to pass before he stepped into the hall with Miquel right behind him. He turned left, walking as if he knew exactly where he was going. No one challenged them.
    He and Miquel wandered the halls for over a half an hour, pausing intermittingly to send out a questioning song. No answer came, either from Diago, or Rafael.
    Guillermo moved in the direction of the wards for the criminally insane. Following his instincts for the shortest route, he led Miquel through the geriatric ward. A ­couple of patients shuffled along, holding onto the wall. Others sat in wheelchairs, staring out the tall windows onto a small courtyard.
    Miquel touched Guillermo’s arm.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThere.” Miquel pointed to an elderly man with long silver hair and small sharp teeth. He sat in a wheelchair. A heavy blanket covered his lap, and he twisted the folds of the fabric in his long elegant hands.
    Unlike the ten fingers of a mortal, this man had eight. His thumbs were almost as long and dexterous as his fingers. He wasn’t mortal, he was angel.
    Miquel leaned close and whispered, “Prieto.”
    Guillermo hadn’t even realized he’d grasped his lighter until he heard the first click of the lid. Prieto smiled at the sound, but otherwise made no sign he knew they were there. But he knows. Guillermo didn’t kid himself. Prieto wanted to be found; otherwise, Miquel wouldn’t have seen him.
    Guillermo went to the angel’s side and squatted beside the wheelchair. Miquel put his back to the wall so he could watch the corridor.
    â€œA lot of ­people are looking for you, Prieto,” Guillermo murmured.
    Prieto gave Guillermo a feral grin. “The party never truly begins until I arrive.”
    â€œAre we going to dance now?” Guillermo saw the insanity in the angel’s eyes wasn’t entirely feigned.
    â€œI’m afraid not. No time for subtleties. I’m late for a very important meeting.” He kept his fingers moving over a section of the blanket. Strands of sound whispered over a silk bag.
    Guillermo fixed his gaze on the small purse. The idea .
    Prieto noted the direction of Guillermo’s stare and said, “It seems that I can’t leave the asylum. The chords”—­he waved at a nearby