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doctor I’m supposed to be.”
    â€œAn alienist.”
    Diago calmed somewhat. Guillermo was in no danger if he had sent for Diago to play the role of a criminal psychiatrist, and that likewise meant Miquel was safe.
    Whenever mortals were involved and his friend had needed someone to read the patterns of a daimon attack, he’d called on Diago and passed him off as an alienist. Now that he was Los Nefilim, Guillermo must have decided wining and dining him was no longer a necessary component of the request. “And what kind of crime am I investigating?”
    â€œWe don’t have time for questions.” Garcia jerked the door open. “Get in.”
    No use arguing. The sooner he got inside, the sooner they’d arrive . . . where? There could be only one place. Guillermo had mentioned a visit to Doña Rosa Iniguez. Diago got in the car.
    Garcia slammed the door hard enough to rattle the window in its frame.
    Diago caught the young mortal’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “What’s happened?”
    The young man licked his lips. “He killed them all,” he whispered. “He’s insane.”
    Garcia rounded the right bumper.
    Diago resisted the urge to lean forward. “Who?”
    The officer clutched the wheel in a white-­knuckled grip. Before he could answer, Garcia jerked open the door and got in the front seat.
    â€œDrive.”

 
    CHAPTER THREE
    T he lump, which had settled in Diago’s stomach outside the Casa Milà, grew heavier when they stopped at the corner of Carrer de les Magdalenes and Carrer de Montsio. A few doors down Montsio, two young officers guarded the entrance to Doña Rosa’s home.
    Don’t assume the worst. Maybe Doña Rosa escaped whatever calamity befell her house. She could easily have been at church, or out with friends. Diago didn’t ask. He didn’t want his illusions shattered too soon.
    Their driver stopped the car in front of one of the barricades. More police blocked both ends of the street and held back a crowd of spectators. Death didn’t just draw the ravens anymore.
    Diago got out and followed a few steps behind Garcia. They had only gone ten paces when a photographer stepped away from the crowd and aimed his camera at them.
    Just what I don’t need. Diago dropped his head and angled his hat to obscure his features. Judging from today’s adventure, Ferrer read the papers extensively. What if he saw Diago’s picture and a caption identifying him as an alienist investigating a crime scene? Christ. Garcia should have brought them in through the alley behind Doña Rosa’s house. Too late now. Diago gritted his teeth.
    The flash popped and spun back the shadows. Garcia shoved the camera into the man’s nose. The crunch of cartilage was loud enough to carry over the murmurs of the crowd. A spectator cried out at the sudden violence. The man dropped his camera and clutched his bleeding face.
    Garcia ripped out the film. “Arrest that man. I’ll deal with him later.”
    Brutal but effective. Diago didn’t wait for Garcia. The inspector caught up with him faster than he would have liked.
    â€œWas that really necessary?” Diago muttered.
    â€œMortals are like dogs, Alvarez.” Garcia straightened his sleeves. “Make an example of one”—­he gestured over his shoulder at the photographer, who was being shoved into a police car—­“and the rest of them stay out of our way.”
    Diago wasn’t sure if Garcia’s “our” referred to the police or Los Nefilim; although knowing Garcia’s contempt for mortals, Diago guessed it was the latter. He would have argued the point, but they had reached the front door. Both of the older mortals guarding the entrance gave Garcia twin smiles of tacit approval over his handling of the photographer.
    Diago had to admit Garcia knew how to manipulate their allegiance. Maybe he does know