had taken his jacket off and allowed his wings to emerge through his oxford. As a schoolboy often in
trouble, Percival had frequently found his father waiting for him in his study, his wings pointed
nervously in this very same manner. Mr. Grigori was a strict, ill-tempered, cold, and ruthlessly
aggressive man, whose wings echoed his temperament: They were austere and narrow appendages
with dull silver feathers the color of fish scales that lacked the proper width or span. In fact, his
father’s wings were the exact opposite of Sneja’s. Percival found it appropriate that their physical
appearances should be so opposite. His parents had not lived together in nearly one hundred years.
Mr. Grigori tapped a World War II—era Meisterstück fountain pen against the table’s surface,
another sign of impatience and irritation that Percival recognized from his childhood. Looking at
Percival, he said, “Where have you been? We have been waiting for word from you all day.”
Sneja arranged her wings about her and sat at the table. Turning to Percival, she said, “Yes, my
darling, tell us—what news from the convent?”
Percival fell into a chair at the head of the table, set his cane at his side, and took a deep, labored
breath. His hands trembled. He felt both hot and cold at once. His clothes were soaked through with
sweat. Each breath burned his lungs, as if the air fueled a kindling fire. He was slowly suffocating.
“Calm yourself, son,” Mr. Grigori said, looking at Percival with contempt.
“He’s ill,” Sneja snapped, putting her fat hand on her son’s arm. “Take your time, dearest. Tell us
what has put you in such a state.”
Percival could see his father’s disappointment and his mother’s growing helplessness. He did not
know how he would gather the strength to speak of the disaster that had befallen them. Sneja had
ignored his phone calls all morning. He had tried her many times during the lonely drive back to the
city and she had simply refused to pick up. He would have much preferred to tell her the news on the
phone.
At last Percival said, “The mission was unsuccessful.”
Sneja paused, understanding from the tone of her son’s voice that there was more bad news. “But
that is impossible,” she said.
“I have just come from the convent,” Percival said. “I have seen it with my own eyes. We have
suffered a terrible defeat.”
“What of the Gibborim?” Mr. Grigori said.
“Gone,” Percival said.
“Retreated?” Sneja asked.
“Killed,” Percival said.
“Impossible,” Mr. Grigori said. “We sent nearly one hundred of our strongest warriors.”
“And each one was struck down,” Percival said. “They were instantly killed. I walked through the
aftermath and saw their bodies. Not one Gibborim lived.”
“This is unthinkable,” Mr. Grigori said. “Such a defeat has not occurred in my lifetime.”
“It was an unnatural defeat,” Percival said.
“Are you saying that there was a summoning?” Sneja asked, incredulous.
Percival folded his hands upon the table, relieved that he had stopped trembling. “I wouldn’t have
believed it possible. There are not many angelologists alive who have been initiated into the art of
summoning, especially in America, where they are at a loss for mentorship. But it is the only
explanation for such complete destruction.”
“What does Otterley say about this?” Sneja asked, pushing away her chair and standing. “Surely
she doesn’t believe that they have the strength to perform a summoning. The practice is all but
extinct.”
“Mother,” Percival said, his voice strained with emotion, “we lost everyone in the attack.”
Sneja looked from Percival to her husband, as if only his reaction would make her son’s words
true.
Percival’s voice faltered in shame and despair as he continued, “I was at a distance from the
convent when the attack occurred, but I could see the terrible whirlwind of angels. They descended
upon the Gibborim. Otterley was among their number.”
“You saw her body?” Sneja said, walking from one end of the room to the other. Her wings had
pressed closed against her body, an involuntary physical reaction. “You are certain?”
“There is no doubt,” Percival said. “I watched the humans dispose of the bodies.”
“And what of the treasure?” Sneja said, growing frantic. “What of your trusted employee? What of
Gabriella Lévi-Franche Valko? Tell me you have gained something from our losses?”
“By the time I arrived, they were gone,” Percival said. “Gabriella’s Porsche was abandoned at the