Otterley tossed her car keys to the doorman, who walked off to retrieve the car from a garage
around the corner. Standing at the curb, with Fifth Avenue stretching beyond, Percival struggled to
breathe. The more desperate he became for air, the more painful it was to inhale, and so he was
relieved when the white Jaguar idled before them, exhaust rising from the tail. Otterley slid into the
driver’s seat and waited as Percival, whose body ached with the slightest irregular movement, eased
delicately into the leather passenger seat, wheezing and gasping for breath. His frayed, rotting wings
pressed against his back as the harness shifted. He suppressed an urge to cry out in pain as Otterley
put the car in gear and sped into traffic.
While she steered toward the West Side Highway, Percival turned the heat on high, hoping that the
warm air would allow him to breathe with more ease. At a traffic light, his sister turned to examine
him, her eyes narrowed. She did not speak, but it was clear that she didn’t know what to do with the
weak, struggling being who had once been the future of the Grigori family.
Percival removed a handgun from the glove compartment, made sure it was loaded, and tucked it
into the inside pocket of his overcoat. The gun was heavy and cold. Running his fingers over it, he
wondered what it would feel like to point it at Gabriella’s head, to press it upon the soft spot at her
temple, to frighten her. No matter what had happened in the past, no matter how many times he had
dreamed of Gabriella, he was not going to allow her to interfere. This time he would kill her himself.
Tappan Zee Bridge, 1-87 North, New York
With its antiquated engine and low chassis, the Porsche proved to be a bumpy, loud ride. Yet despite
the noise, Verlaine found the journey to be deeply calming. He looked at Gabriella sitting in the
driver’s seat, her arm resting against the door. She had the air of someone planning a bank heist—her
manner was concentrated, serious, and careful. He had come to think of her as an extraordinarily
private person, a woman who said nothing more than she needed to. Although Verlaine had pressed
her for information, it took some time before she would open her thoughts to him.
At his insistence they had spent the drive in a discussion about her work—its history and purpose,
how Abigail Rockefeller had become involved, and how Gabriella had spent her life entrenched in
angelology, until Verlaine understood the depth of the danger he’d fallen into. Their familiarity with
each other grew as the minutes passed, and by the time they drove over the bridge, an uncommon
understanding had developed between them.
From their vantage above the wide expanse of the Hudson, Verlaine could see ice chunks clinging
to the snowy riverbanks. Looking down upon the landscape, he felt as if the earth had split open in a
great geomorphic gash. The sun burnished the Hudson so that it scintillated with heat and color, fluid
and brilliant as a sheet of fire.
The lanes of the highway were empty compared to the clogged streets of Manhattan. Once across
the bridge, Gabriella drove faster and faster over the open road. The Porsche sounded as tired as he
felt: Its motor rattled as if it might explode. Verlaine’s stomach ached with hunger; his eyes burned
from exhaustion. Glancing into the rearview mirror, he saw, to his surprise, that he looked as if he’d
been in a brawl. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair tangled. Gabriella had helped him to dress the
wound properly, winding gauze around his hand so that it resembled a boxing glove. It seemed
appropriate: In the past twenty-four hours he had become a battered, beaten, and bruised man.
And yet in the presence of such immense beauty—the river, the azure sky, the eggshell glint of the
Porsche—Verlaine reveled in the sudden expansion of his perception. He could see how confined his
life had become in the past years. He’d spent whole days moving along a tiny track between his
apartment, his office, and a few cafés and restaurants. Rarely if ever did he step outside this pattern.
He could not remember the last time he had really noted his surroundings or truly looked at the people
around him. He had been lost in a maze. That he would never return to that life again was both
terrifying and exhilarating.
Gabriella turned off the highway and drove onto a small country road. She stretched, arching her
back like a cat. “We need to get gas,” she said, scanning the road for a place to stop. Rounding a
bend, Verlaine spotted a twenty-four-hour gas station. Gabriella pulled off the road and parked
alongside a pump. She didn’t object when he offered to fill the car, telling him to be sure to use
premium.
As Verlaine had paid for the gas, he stood gazing over the neat rows of merchandise inside the