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intervals, illuminating the tunnel’s concrete and steel girders. As they rode, Diago noticed deeper shades of purple and black that spread tentacles of darkness between the tiles. The colors indicated the outer edges of a bridge between the mortal world and the daimonic realms.
    Odd. He’d ridden this route before and never noticed the bridge, so it must be newly formed. He glanced at Garcia but said nothing. Even though the angel-­born Nefilim weren’t as receptive to the existence of the bridges as the daimon-­born, they could still perceive them. Diago’s dual nature simply increased his sensitivity to such phenomena.
    If he pointed out the boundaries, Garcia would have no difficulty seeing the bridge. Maybe this would be the first step toward building trust with the other Nefil. Diago lifted his hand to touch Garcia’s arm, and then he froze.
    Several metres away, the threads of color coalesced into a solid form as if a hole had materialized in the wall. A man stood on the mortal side of the bridge.
    No. Not a man. No mortal could pass over a bridge without daimonic help. Whoever it was had to be a Nefil.
    As the train approached, the Nefil turned his head. Anguished eyes looked out of a face twisted with agony. His mouth was forced open with a grayish-­green band of light, which extended his chin almost to the hollow of his throat. More of the same dull radiance poured through his nostrils. Not light, Diago realized as the train slowed to take the curve. The pulsating colors were streams of magic, and Diago recognized this palette as belonging to Moloch.
    Judging from the streaks of puce flowing through the gray, Diago surmised Moloch was still injured by his encounter with Rafael, a testament to the child’s power. However, while the daimon’s injuries might keep him close to his fires and out of the mortal realms, he obviously wasn’t so incapacitated that he couldn’t send an emissary.
    The Nefil stepped onto the narrow walkway between the tracks and the bridge. His features bespoke a Berber lineage diluted by Visigoth blood. Black lashes encircled his dark green eyes. Cut into his forehead was a single word: LIAR.
    Alvaro. Diago carefully lowered his hand back to his thigh and hoped Garcia hadn’t noticed the movement. He couldn’t let Garcia see this. A quick glance assured him the inspector was engrossed in his book.
    Diago returned his attention to the figure on the bridge. He’d only seen his father’s face when he’d worn the distorted features of the ‘aulaq . At that time, Alvaro had looked nothing like Diago.
    Now he does. There is no mistaking us for father and son because he no longer wears the flesh. I am seeing his soul, his true self. He is dead. But he lives.
    Alvaro twisted his head and worked his jaw. The perverse gag of Moloch’s magic writhed down his throat.
    His voice. Moloch had stolen his voice.
    As Diago’s car neared, Alvaro frantically snatched the train’s smoke and twisted the mist into words. Diago, my son, help me . . . help . . . she hunts . . . help me. . .
    My son. The old familiar hurt rose in his chest. When had Alvaro ever called Diago son? Never.
    Then Moloch’s tether tightened around Alvaro’s throat and yanked him back into the daimon’s realm. Diago flinched. His father vanished within the pulsating darkness.
    â€œSomething wrong?” Garcia muttered.
    Diago started. He shook his head. “No.”
    â€œYou’re pale.”
    â€œIt’s nothing.” He kept his gaze straight ahead, highly conscious of Garcia’s scrutiny. He couldn’t tell Garcia about Alvaro. He would see a conspiracy between father and son, or make up one to suit his needs.
    â€œWhat is happening, Alvarez?”
    â€œNothing.” Diago repeated. He twisted his fingers into the fabric of his coat. Somehow Moloch had entrapped Alvaro’s soul.
    And? Diago