Read Los Nefilim Book 4 for Free Online

handbills and advertisements were faded, nearly illegible. The scent of the sea became a memory embedded in the fibers of Diago’s clothes. Sounds of the Paralelo’s revelers diminished until the clamor vanished. Time stood still and soft, like the moments embedded in midnight’s silence.
    Diago drew his Luger and held the gun close to his thigh. Not even silver tips would stop an angel, but holding the weapon comforted him with the illusion of protection. The skin on his exposed hands tingled. He paused, his palm damp against the grip of the gun.
    The distant strains of a guitar drifted out of the fog. In those notes, Diago recognized one of Miquel’s favorite falsetas . This one began por arriba, high along the frets, shifting rapidly through the notes. A wedge of hope pushed back his fear. If it was Miquel, then he might be all right.
    The tune picked up speed. The player missed a chord. The song halted.
    Diago froze.
    The music began again—­louder, closer—­although Diago had not moved. Whatever approached was coming to him. The fog became electric. Drops of moisture sizzled against the black windows and shadow doors that lined the alley.
    The strings hummed when the player missed his next chord. It was Miquel. Any doubt was erased by that error. When he grew tired, he always failed to make a smooth transition between F and E. Judging from the screech of his fingers along the strings, he was exhausted.
    But he’s alive. He’s alive, and that’s what matt—­
    The song ended abruptly.
    Diago thought he heard voices. He cocked his head.
    A man spoke a command.
    Miquel answered. “I can’t.”
    The man spoke again. His tone mocked Miquel’s pain. “You will.”
    Miquel began to play.
    Rage flared through Diago’s chest and into his head, almost blinding him. He clenched his jaw and pushed down his anger. He needed his mind clear.
    The sounds drew closer still. Miquel’s ring was warm on Diago’s finger. Diago searched the gloom. Come on. Stop tormenting us and show yourself. As if in answer, a door appeared in the wall on his left. Cold blue light spilled across the threshold and shouldered the fog aside. Over the open door, an electric scorpion writhed and blinked in neon splendor.
    Diago crept toward the entrance and peered inside. The room was gray, like the walls and the floor had been sculpted from the mist. The same lack of color that diluted the details of the bar enhanced the three figures within.
    Miquel played a worn guitar, his fingertips dark with his own blood. Sweat dampened his black curls. Other than a bruise that spread across his left eye like a poison sunset, and his worn fingertips, he seemed to be all right.
    Even so, Diago’s heart hammered at the sight of him. Adrenaline flooded his body with an intoxicating mixture of relief and rage.
    The loud click of marbles striking wooden trays redirected his attention to the table where an angel in his mortal form sat across from a child. Diago focused on the angel first. He was the same one Estrella had described. To any human who happened to glance at him, he appeared as a beautiful man with long silver hair pulled into ponytail that cascaded down his back. A closer look revealed that he had only four fingers on each hand.
    Safe within his lair, he made no attempt to hide his feet, which resembled the clawed talons of a raptor. Thick fur covered his ankles and disappeared beneath the seams of his pants. The eyes were the worst. Great crimson orbs shot through with streams of silver. He possessed no pupils, no whites.
    An hourglass stood on the table. Yellow sand trickled from the top bulb into the bottom. The thin line of sand in the top half left no doubt that Diago had arrived just in time.
    A mancala board was placed between the angel and the child. They used brightly colored marbles for their game pieces. The boy was fixated on a large marble that rested in the