Los Nefilim Book 4 Read Online Free Page B

clamped his fingers around the receiver and calmed himself. “All right, give Guillermo a message for me. Tell him that I have lost the key. I am going to look for it.”
    Suero was silent. Diago imagined the cogs clicking in the younger Nefil’s mind upon hearing that news. The key was their code for Miquel, and Suero loved him like a brother.
    A note of wariness touched Suero’s voice. “Do you need me to come, Diago?”
    â€œNo. It could be nothing.” The calling card’s warning flashed through his mind: Come alone or not at all. He hastened to reassure Suero. “I’m going to the Villa Rosa and the Club d’Escorpí. Everything is under control.”
    â€œUntil it isn’t.”
    Argumentative little fuck. Diago gripped the phone and glared at the scuff along the wainscoting. While his lack of an oath allowed Diago to move freely between the ranks of daimon and angel, it also created a certain amount of resentment with Guillermo’s Nefilim. They treated him like he might betray them on a moment’s notice, and Suero was the most suspicious of the lot.
    Diago knew one harsh look would intimidate the younger Nefil to his proper place, but the telephone robbed him of the finesse he enjoyed in a face-­to-­face encounter. This gave him a whole new reason to detest the device.
    Suero must have sensed that he overstepped his bounds, though. He broke the long silence and attempted a more conciliatory tone. “How long, Diago?”
    That was better. Not good enough to make Diago forget Suero’s transgression, but better. “Four hours.”
    After another brief pause, Suero said, “The clock is ticking.”
    Of that, Diago had no doubt.

 
    Chapter Three
    T he train rolled into the station just as he reached the platform. Maybe his luck was changing. He joined the other travelers and squeezed into a car. Too restless to sit, he stood and clung to the cold steel bar, watching the passengers with a hunter’s eye.
    They were all mortals. Whoever Beltran Prieto was, he wasn’t following Diago, or having him followed. The fact that Prieto trusted Diago to come to him alone bespoke excellent planning and knowledge of his prey. It was just another detail that increased Diago’s anxiety.
    When the train finally lumbered to his stop, Diago was the first one off. The trip from the Gothic Quarter to the Paralelo cost him almost forty minutes. How long did he have to keep this rendezvous? Diago had no answer to that question, but thought it best not to waste a second. He climbed the stairs two at a time and found the fog heavier here by the sea.
    The street was clogged with the usual evening crowd of pedestrians, cars, and a few horses and carts, all vying to be first along the roadway. Diago shoved his way past the ­people and managed to catch a tram for the final leg of his journey. The tram’s bell sent out one discordant clang after another as the fog slowed everything to a crawl.
    The traffic was no less congested on the Avenue of the Paralelo, but the width of the street eased some of bottleneck. Diago leapt from the car before the tram had rolled to a complete stop. With three quick steps, he caught his balance and pushed his way toward the opposite street corner in the direction of the wharfs.
    Here, Barcelona sang a thousand different melodies, from the refined theaters that catered to the nobles and the bourgeoisie down to the lowest bars near the docks. The Villa Rosa lay in an area that teetered between the extremes.
    Mumbled lyrics and songs half sung trickled into the street as some of the club performers practiced their routines. A door opened, and Diago caught the first fragile notes of a tune. The hesitant chords were followed by more confident strumming, punctuated by rhythmic finger taps against the body of a guitar.
    Someone clapped rapid beats while a woman coached a dancer through her steps: “ Gólpe, gólpe,