Angelology(165)

nearly one hundred creatures to command.”

Percival felt as if his mother had slapped him. Surely she knew that his sickness prevented him

from fighting. Relinquishing control to Otterley was humiliating and required a level of restraint he’d

thought Sneja would admire.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said, keeping his anger in check. “Otterley is more than capable. I

am watching the entrance to the convent, to be sure there isn’t interference.”

“Well,” Sneja said, “whether she is capable or not is rather beside the point.”

Percival considered the tone of his mother’s voice, trying to understand the message it was meant

to imply. “Has she proven otherwise?”

“Darling, she doesn’t have anything to prove herself with,” Sneja said. “For all her bluster, our

Otterley is in a terrible predicament.”

“I really have no idea what you mean,” Percival said. In the distance the faintest stream of smoke

began to rise from the convent, signaling that the attack had begun. His sister seemed to be managing

quite fine without him.

“When was the last time you saw your sister’s wings?” Sneja asked.

“I don’t know,” Percival said. “It’s been ages.”

“I will tell you the last time you saw them,” Sneja said. “It was 1848, at her coming-out ball in

Paris.”

Percival recalled the event clearly. Otterley’s wings were new, and, like all young Nephilim, she

had displayed them with great pride. They had been multicolored, like Sneja’s wings, but very small.

It was expected that they would grow full with time.

Sneja continued, “If you have wondered why it has been so long since Otterley has shown her

wings properly, it is because they did not develop. They are tiny and useless, the wings of a child.

She cannot fly, and she certainly cannot display them. Can you imagine how ridiculous Otterley

would look if she were to open such appendages?”

“I had no idea,” Percival said, incredulous. Despite the resentment he felt for his sister, he was

deeply protective of Otterley.

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Sneja said. “You don’t seem to notice much but your own pleasure and

your own suffering. Your sister has tried to hide her predicament from all of us for more than a

century. But the truth of the matter is, she is not like you or me. Your wings were glorious, once upon

a time. And my wings are incomparable. Otterley is a lower breed.”

“You think she is incapable of directing the Gibborim,” Percival said, understanding at last why

their mother had told him Otterley’s secret. “You think she will lose control of the attack.”

“If only you could assume your rightful role, my son,” Sneja said, her voice filling with

disappointment, as if she had already resigned herself to Percival’s failure. “If only it were you taking

up our cause. Perhaps we—”

Unable to listen to another word, Percival disconnected the call. Examining the highway, he saw

the blacktop stretch away from him, twisting through the trees and disappearing around a bend. There

was nothing he could do to assist Otterley. He was helpless to restore the glory of his family.

Route 9W, Milton, New York

By the time they had made it to the small highway outside Milton, Gabriella and Verlaine had smoked

half the pack of cigarettes, filling the Porsche with the heavy, acrid scent of smoke. Verlaine cracked

the window, allowing a stream of chilled air into the car. He wished Gabriella would continue with

her story, but he didn’t want to press her. She appeared frail and tired, as if the very act of recounting

her past had exhausted her—dark circles appeared below her eyes, and her shoulders drooped

slightly. The abundance of smoke swirling through the car stung Verlaine’s eyes but appeared to have

little effect upon Gabriella. She stepped on the gas, intent to reach the convent.

Verlaine looked out the window as the snowy forest flashed by. Trees expanded from the highway,

row upon row of winter-barren birch, sugar maple, and oak stretching far as Verlaine could see. He

watched the roadside, looking for clues that they had arrived—a wooden sign marking the entrance to

the convent or the church spire rising above the trees. He had mapped the course from New York City

to St. Rose at his apartment, noting the bridges and highways. If his estimate was correct, the convent

would be just miles north of Milton. They should be upon it at any moment.

“Look in the mirror,” Gabriella said, her voice unnaturally calm.

Verlaine followed her instructions. A black SUV followed at a distance. “They’ve been there for