Angelology(144)

given up the fight so easily had she not been murdered at the hands of the Nephilim.”

Evangeline said, “I thought she died in the fire.”

“That is what we told the outer world, but it is not the truth.” Philomena’s skin flushed red and then

blanched to a very pale color, as if the act of discussing the fire brought her skin in contact with a

phantom heat.

“I happened to be in the balcony of Maria Angelorum when the fire broke out. I was cleaning the

pipes of the Casavant organ, a terribly difficult chore. With fourteen hundred and twenty-two pipes,

twenty stops, and thirty ranks, it was hard enough to dust the organ, but Mother Innocenta had assigned

me the twice-yearly task of polishing the brass! Imagine it! I believe that Mother Innocenta was

punishing me for something, although it completely slips my mind what I could have done to displease

her.”

Evangeline knew full well that Philomena could work herself into a state of inconsolable grievance

about the events of the fire. Instead of interrupting her, as she wished, she folded her hands in her lap

and endeavored to listen as penance for missing adoration that morning. “I am certain you did nothing

to displease anyone,” Evangeline said.

“I heard an unusual commotion,” Philomena continued, as she would have with or without

Evangeline’s encouragement, “and went to the great rose window at the back of the choir loft. If you

have cleaned the organ, or participated in our choir, you will know that the rose window looks over

the central courtyard. That morning the courtyard was filled with hundreds of sisters. Soon enough I

noticed the smoke and flames that had consumed the fourth floor, although, sequestered as I was in the

church balcony, with a clear view of the upper regions, I had no idea of what was happening on the

other floors of the convent. I later learned, however, that the damage was extensive. We lost

everything.”

“How awful,” Evangeline said, repressing the urge to ask how this could be construed as a

Nephilistic attack.

“Terrible indeed,” Philomena said. “But I have not told you everything. I have been silenced by

Mother Perpetua on the subject, but I will remain silent no longer. Sister Innocenta, I tell you, was

murdered. Murdered.”

“What do you mean?” Evangeline asked, trying to understand the seriousness of Philomena’s

accusation. Only hours before, she had learned that her mother had been murdered at the hands of

these creatures, and now Innocenta. Suddenly, St. Rose felt like the most dangerous place her father

could have placed her.

“From the choir loft, I heard a wooden door slam closed. In a matter of seconds, Mother Innocenta

appeared below. I watched her hurry through the central aisle of the church, a group of sisters—two

novices and two fully professed—following close behind her. They seemed to be on their way to the

Adoration Chapel, perhaps to pray. That was Innocenta’s way: Prayer was not simply a devotion or a

ritual but a solution to all that is imperfect in the world. She believed so strongly in the power of

prayer that I quite expect she believed she could stop the fire with it.”

Philomena sighed, took her glasses and rubbed them with a crisp white handkerchief. Sliding her

clean glasses onto her nose, she looked at Evangeline sharply, as if gauging her suitability for the tale,

and continued.

“Suddenly two enormous figures stepped from the side aisles. They were extraordinarily tall and

bony, with white hands and faces that seemed lit by fire. Their hair and skin appeared, even from a

distance, to glow with a soft white radiance. They had large blue eyes, high cheekbones, and full pink

lips. Their hair fell in curls around their faces. Yet their shoulders were broad, and they wore

trousers and rain jackets—the attire of gentlemen—as if they were no different from a banker or a

lawyer. While these secular clothes dispelled the thought that they might be Holy Cross brothers, who

at that time wore full brown robes and tonsured heads, I could not make out who or what the creatures

were.

“I now know that these creatures are called Gibborim, the warrior class of Nephilim. They are

brutal, bloodthirsty, unfeeling beings whose ancestry—on the angelic side, that is—goes back to the

great warrior Michael. It is too noble a lineage for such horrid creatures and explains their strange

beauty. Looking back, with full knowledge of what they were, I understand that their beauty was a

terrible manifestation of evil, a cold and diabolic allure that could lead one all the more easily to

harm. They were physically perfect, but it was a perfection severed from God—an empty, soulless