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angel’s mancala pit. Diago recognized the marble as a Blood Alley. Guillermo’s daughter Ysabel had a similar one, but hers contained swirls of milky white quartz. Unlike Ysabel’s marble, this one was as dark as carmine.
    Like the eyes of a golden snake. The thought came from nowhere and gave Diago a jolt.
    His heart picked up speed as he finally looked to the child.
    My son, he corrected himself in wonder. This isn’t just any child. He is my son . No amount of abstract reasoning had prepared Diago for the emotions that assaulted him as he examined the boy. It was one thing to realize he had a child. It was something entirely different to see that child in the flesh for the first time.
    A flat cap pushed the boy’s thick bangs into his eyes. His hair was as blue-­black as Diago’s, but the waves that curled the ends belonged to Candela. The child’s magic was as wild as his hair, and tangled around his small body in hues of amber and jade. Another Nefil would easily recognize him as Nefil. To mortals, in spite of the filth, he was simply a beautiful child.
    A forest-­green jacket threaded with yellow hung on his thin body; the sleeves were rolled back to his wrists. He clutched a worn rag-­horse with button eyes. The toy had obviously been salvaged from someone’s trash. His scabby knees showed more bone than flesh. One sock was rumpled around his ankle, the other clung to his calf, ready to let go its precarious hold and join its mate. The boy was filthy, as if he’d been living on the streets. For all Diago knew, he had been. He had no idea who, if anyone, had cared for him since Candela’s death.
    Why didn’t she tell me? Did she think me so evil that I’d desert him? He might not have wanted a child, but he certainly wouldn’t have run from the responsibility. Not like his father had.
    The boy chose a tray and scooped up the marbles. He counted them out and frowned at the board, tapping his fingers against the table in a slow rhythm, like a cat twitching its tail. The familiarity of the motion stunned Diago. He often did the same thing when distracted.
    He is mine. And on the heels of that thought came the obvious: I have to get him out of here. He glanced at Miquel again. I have to get both of them out of here.
    â€œCome in, Diago,” said the angel. “We have been waiting for you.”
    Miquel stopped playing and looked up. His dark bangs fell over his forehead, but not before Diago saw the pain that cut crystal tears into his eyes. The last note hung blue and lonely in the air.
    Advancing slowly, Diago surveyed the room one last time. When he was sure they were the only occupants, he holstered the gun—­the weapon was useless here. Halfway to the table, he hesitated, torn between going to Miquel and snatching his son away from the angel.
    He gauged the distance between him and Miquel, who was less than a metre away. Miquel gave a single shake of his head, discouraging Diago from coming closer.
    The last grain of sand fell through the hourglass. The door slammed shut. Diago whirled, reaching for his gun again. He expected to see the two men Doña Rosa had mentioned, but the short hall was empty. His fingers slid from the gun’s grip as he turned back to the angel. “Who are you?”
    â€œBeltran Prieto.” The angel tipped his head and spread his hands. “At your ser­vice.”
    â€œThat’s not your name.”
    â€œIt’s the only name you’ll have from my lips.” He leaned back in his chair and looked toward the door. “Expecting someone?”
    â€œTwo men delivered your gift. Where are they?”
    â€œAh,” Prieto murmured. The marbles clicked together as he placed each one in a pit. He won himself a second turn. “There were no men. Doña Rosa lied to you. Oh, don’t look so shocked. José is in a great deal of debt to some rather unscrupulous characters. She was