The Second Death by T. Frohock Page A

window where the notes of Die Nephilim’s sigils covered the metallic sky—­“of Engel’s song, seek me. It has taken all of my skill to remain invisible to Engel and his pack of Nephilim. If I try to move past their song, Engel will immediately know where I am. He was always stronger than me. Now, in my weakened state, he will easily take the idea from me.”
    There was more to it than that, Guillermo thought as he assessed Prieto’s pale features. In his efforts to remain hidden, the angel had expended his own song to the point of depletion. He was dying.
    Prieto must have seen the knowledge in Guillermo’s eyes. “I am trapped, Guillermo, trapped well and good.” A shaky laugh trembled through his lips.
    Even coming from the half-­mad angel, the laughter brightened the dim hall. Several mortals nodded and smiled as if their hearts were lightened in the wake of the angel’s mirth.
    Guillermo was reminded that the angels had once brought only joy in their wake, but some had remained in the mortal realm for too long. While the archangels rarely descended from their heavenly home, the Messengers were becoming tarnished by taking the flesh, which sullied their spirits until they, like the daimons and the mortals, grew more caught up in worldly concerns than those of the spirit. Guillermo sometimes wondered if he wasn’t wrong. Perhaps it wasn’t the affairs of angels that affected the mortals—­perhaps it was the other way around.
    Prieto’s laughter trailed into silence. He glared at the window where the net of sigils turned the sky the color of mercury.
    Guillermo’s lighter clicked softly in the hush that had fallen over the hall. “What’s going on, Prieto?”
    The angel breathed heavily and tracked the vibrations of Die Nephilim’s song with deep brown eyes. “Yellowcloud was delayed. I was forced to linger here in the asylum longer than was wise.”
    Guillermo glimpsed the claw of a talon at the foot of the blanket. Certain that if he pulled the blanket away, he would find the feet of a raptor, Guillermo reached down and adjusted the blanket so that Prieto’s talons were hidden. That would explain the wheelchair. Moving on these polished floors would be treacherous—­not to mention conspicuous—­especially with all his power focused on keeping Engel at bay.
    â€œTalk to me, Prieto.” Guillermo spoke quietly.
    â€œWhere do you want to begin?” Prieto asked.
    â€œStart with Garcia, end with Yellowcloud.”
    Prieto nodded and fumbled with the silk bag. “Engel has been working on Garcia for years. They’re friends. That is why Garcia flagrantly disobeyed your command to bring any angelic orders to you before obeying them. Engel swears he is not ordering Garcia to act. He merely makes suggestions—­innuendos and intrigues. Garcia believes he is acting of his own volition. In truth, his motivations are provoked by his own prejudices. He has long believed that you are too lenient with the daimons. Engel tells Garcia what he wants to hear and strokes his intolerance—­and ego—­into hate.”
    â€œThat makes Garcia stupid,” Miquel said.
    â€œNo argument from me.” Prieto picked at his blanket as if pulling fleas from the fabric. “But this goes higher than Engel and Garcia. The Principalities are involved.”
    Guillermo’s stomach did a slow somersault. “Which ones?”
    Prieto said, “Aker.”
    Miquel whispered, “The Prince of Germany.”
    â€œWho else?” Guillermo asked.
    â€œPoyel.”
    The Prince of Italy. Guillermo and Miquel traded a guarded look.
    â€œWhat does Aker want with Spain?” Guillermo asked, though he suspected he knew the answer.
    Prieto toyed with the silk bag. “Aker believes that Sariel is unable to govern.”
    This was news to Guillermo. As far as he knew, Sariel, the Princess of Spain,