Free The Second Death by T. Frohock

to look at his hand.
    The ‘aulaq had bitten Diago’s pinky off at the knuckle. The puckered scar appeared to be healed. He rubbed the skin gently. Then why does it still hurt?
    The pain was probably the result of the ‘aulaq’s poison, which still roiled through his blood. Yet the venom hadn’t interfered with his song last night. Nor will it now. But his gestures might be stiff, and that worried him.
    Diago flexed his fingers. He needed dexterity for this spell, which depended as much on form as song. He held up his arm over his head and twisted his wrist, wincing at the pain, which shot into his shoulder.
    Damn it. He stretched and concentrated on each muscle. Again he forced his arm high and rotated his wrist. The discomfort wasn’t as bad this time. “Come on . . .” Time was slipping from him. Shaking out his hands, he extended his arms again. The movement was easier. The pain was still there, but it was manageable now.
    Just as pain tends to be, given enough time.
    Diago took two short steps, twice striking his heel against the concrete. He turned, raising his arms over his head, wrists touching back-­to-­back, hands open, fingers joined close together. Where he was supposed to extend his pinky, he extended the ring fingers of both hands so the gesture was uniform.
    He held the pose and disregarded the ache in his right shoulder. His body had moved into the dance, muscles remembering what the brain had forgotten. On the third practice move, an electric smell entered the cell. Diago felt the charge snap from his heel on the second strike.
    Almost there. How much longer did he have? How many minutes had passed?
    â€œToo many,” he murmured. Don’t think about it.
    Closing his eyes, he forced himself through the dance. His flesh warmed with the exercise. The next strike produced a spark.
    Before he could doubt himself, Diago took his place in front of the skull. “And now, my beautiful Amparo, you will knock on Heaven’s door while I break down the gates of Hell.”
    She grinned sweetly as he raised his arms over his head. He cupped his right hand and used the fingers of his left to strike his palm. His wedding band flashed streams of silver in the air. The beats grew faster as he closed his eyes. Reaching deep within himself, he thought of the stars and the endless void. He sent forth a cry, both wild and sweet, and as he did, he kicked his heel against the floor.
    Green fire flew between the skull’s teeth. Amparo’s bones vibrated with the fury of Diago’s song. As they clacked against the concrete, the last remnants of her magic flew free and took the form of a glyph. The music rose upward through the floors until it reached the upper levels of the asylum—­high-­pitched like whale song, the perfect tone for an angel’s ear.
    With the remnants of Amparo’s voice entwined with his, Diago danced around her bones. His feet moved him without disturbing the arrangement. And as he leapt, he drew on his daimonic nature and sang a lament aimed at the caverns beneath the earth. His voice resonated through the vaults.
    The power of his desperation blew out the naked bulb overhead. In the corridor, the other light exploded in a shower of sparks.
    Other than the silver glow of Diago’s wedding band, the basement cells were plunged into darkness. Diago didn’t pause. He danced by the light of Miquel’s love and sang for his son’s soul.

 
    CHAPTER 4
    R afael pulled against Jaso’s grip, but the Nefil held him tight, dragging him down the corridor. Inspector Garcia and the bad angel had disappeared through another door with Papa. Jaso was going the wrong way.
    â€œWhere did they take Papa?”
    â€œTo a quiet place,” Jaso said.
    Moreno laughed like it was some kind of joke, but this wasn’t funny.
    Rafael knew about Holy Cross’s quiet places. His mother had hidden him in the asylum. She had