possessed her once again.
As he drifted into the delicate space between waking and sleeping, Gabriella appeared to him like
a luminous messenger. In his fantasy she told him to come back to her, that all was forgiven, that they
would continue where they had ended. She told him that she loved him, words that no one—human or
Nephilim—had said before. It was an inordinately painful dream, and Percival must have spoken in
his sleep—he startled awake and found the Anakim servant staring intently at him, her large yellow
eyes glimmering with tears, as if she had come to understand something about him. She softened her
touch and said a few words of comfort. She pitied him, he realized, and the presumption of such
intimacy angered Percival—he ordered the beast to leave at once. She nodded submissively, put the
cap on the bottle of oil, collected his soiled clothing, and left in an instant, shutting him in a cocoon of
darkness and despair. He lay awake, feeling the sting of the maid’s touch on his skin.
Soon the Anakim returned, delivering a glass of scotch on a lacquered tray. “Your sister is here,
sir,” she said. “I will tell her that you are sleeping if you wish.”
“No need to lie for him. I can see that he is awake,” Otterley said, brushing past the Anakim and
sitting at Percival’s side. With a flip of her wrist, she dismissed the servant. Taking the massage oil,
Otterley uncapped it and poured some in the palm of her hand. “Turn over,” she said.
Percival obeyed his sister’s orders, turning on his stomach. As Otterley massaged his back, he
wondered what would become of her—and of their family—after the disease had taken him. Percival
had been their great hope, his majestic, masculine golden wings promising that one day he would
ascend to a position of power, superseding even his father’s avaricious ancestors and his mother’s
noble blood. Now he was a wingless, feeble disappointment to his family. He had envisioned himself
to be a great patriarch, the father of an expansive number of Nephilistic children. His sons would
grow to be endowed with the colorful wings of Sneja’s family, gorgeous plumage that would bring
honor to the Grigoris. His daughters would have the qualities of the angels—they would be psychic
and brilliant and trained in the celestial arts. Now, in his decline, he had nothing. He understood how
foolish it had been to waste hundreds of years in the pursuit of pleasure.
That Otterley was equally disappointing made his failure even harder to face. Otterley had
neglected to bring the Grigori family an heir, just as Percival had failed to grow into the angelic being
his mother had so longed for him to be.
“Tell me you’ve come with good news,” Percival said, flinching as Otterley rubbed the delicate
raw flesh near the wing nubs. “Tell me that you’ve recovered the map and killed Verlaine and there is
nothing more to worry about.”
“My dear brother,” Otterley said, leaning close as she massaged his shoulders. “You have really
made a mess of things. First, you hired an angelologist.”
“I did no such thing. He is nothing other than a simple art historian,” Percival said.
“Next, you let him take the map.”
“Architectural drawings,” Percival corrected.
“Then you creep out in the middle of the night and put yourself in this terrible state.” Otterley
stroked the rotted stubs of his wings, a sensation Percival found delicious even as he wished to push
his sister’s hand away.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mother knows you left, and she has asked me to watch you very closely. What would happen if
you were to collapse on the street? How would we explain your condition to the doctors at Lenox
Hill?”
“Tell Sneja there is no need to worry,” Percival said.
“But we do have reason to worry,” Otterley said, wiping her hands on a towel. “Verlaine is still
alive.”
“I thought you sent the Gibborim to his apartment?”
“I did,” Otterley said. “But things have taken a rather unexpected turn. Whereas yesterday we were
simply worried that Verlaine would make off with information, now we know he is much more
dangerous.”
Percival sat up and faced his sister. “How could he possibly be dangerous? Our Anakim poses
more of a threat than a man like Verlaine.”
“He is working with Gabriella Lévi-Franche Valko,” Otterley said, pronouncing each word with
zeal. “Clearly he is one of them. Everything we’ve done to protect ourselves from the angelologists
has been for nothing. Get up,” she said, throwing the harness at Percival. “Get dressed. You are