Los Nefilim Book 4 by T. Frohock Page A

so Rafael enlarged the opening to reveal the box Señor Prieto had given to Doña Rosa. A drop of blood from the cut on his hand smeared across the glass. Rafael tried to wipe away the smudge, but he merely succeeded in dirtying the glass even more. He smoothed the paper over the box, then took his hand from the pocket. Maybe Papa wouldn’t notice the dirt, or if he did, maybe he wouldn’t think that Rafael had made the mess. He didn’t want to make Papa angry, so he formulated the lie he would tell about how the box got dirty. Sister Benita had taught him—­indirectly—­to always have a lie prepared in advance, because any hesitation on his part meant an extra whack from her ruler.
    The sound of Miquel’s footsteps startled Rafael. The top of Miquel’s head came into view. He paused on the stairs and looked down as if he was examining something at his feet.
    Curious to know what Miquel might be looking at, Rafael stood quietly. He was very good at being quiet, because Sister Benita could hear pins drop on angels’ heads, or something like that. Rafael could never remember exactly how the saying went, because Sister Benita usually delivered her speeches while waving a ruler in his face, and the ruler always distracted him.
    Miquel’s breathing was labored like when Señor Prieto had placed the sigil over his heart, and that wasn’t good. Rafael had worried that Miquel might die, but Señor Prieto had promised that as long as Papa did the right thing, Miquel would be fine.
    Miquel certainly didn’t look fine. Rafael’s heart kicked up a notch when the older Nefil stumbled over the top step. He righted himself and pressed his palm against the wall. Color returned to his cheeks and the episode seemed to pass. Rafael remembered the hourglass, and Señor Prieto telling them they had two hours. Had it been two hours? Miquel offered Rafael a wan smile that did nothing to reassure the youngster. He came to Rafael’s side without further incident and sat with his back against the wall.
    A gentle tug on Rafael’s coat sleeve was all it took for Rafael to sit and lean against Miquel. He jammed his hand back into the coat pocket and fingered the mirrored casket, not caring if he tore the paper. He needed something to hold.
    Miquel put his arm around Rafael and pulled him close. “Now we wait. Be very still and quiet.”
    The gun rested in Miquel’s lap, alongside a magazine that held more bullets. Entranced by the blue metal and the lingering remnants of his father’s aura around the grip, Rafael tentatively touched the gun. Miquel moved the weapon out of Rafael’s reach, but not before Rafael noticed the beat of Miquel’s pulse against his wrist. His heart pounded very fast, like Rafael’s did when he knew he was in trouble with Sister Benita, only Miquel wasn’t frightened. Nothing seemed to scare him. He had fought Señor Prieto, and although Miquel lost, he had caused Señor Prieto to be afraid for just a moment. The thin lines of silver in Señor Prieto’s eyes had constricted until they were almost nonexistent, just like Mamá’s eyes changed when she was afraid.
    Rafael was sure that Miquel’s fast heart had nothing to do with fear. Something else was wrong, and Rafael suspected it had to do with the sigil. He touched Miquel’s wrist.
    Instead of pulling away, Miquel hugged Rafael a little tighter. “I’m all right.”
    That was a grownup lie, like when Sister Benita said that she would forgive Rafael as long as he told the truth, but then punished him anyway. The only difference was that Rafael knew Miquel wasn’t trying to trick him, so he nodded even though he could see that Miquel wasn’t all right.
    Gently, so as not to disturb Miquel, Rafael pulled the box from his pocket and peeled it free from the paper. He ran his thumb over the figure of his mother and tried to remember her