Angelology(199)

silently toward the rear of the church. By the time Percival noticed, she was within reach of the door.

Percival lifted his hand and ordered the Gibborim after her. Half of the creatures turned upon her,

while the remaining Gibborim stepped forward, the hems of their robes brushing against the floor as

they surrounded the apse. With a second gesture, Percival instructed these creatures to take hold of

Vladimir.

Clutched tightly in their grasp, Vladimir inhaled the scent of the creatures’ skin; he felt the chill of

their bodies behind him. A cool gust of air swept the nape of his neck as the creatures beat their

wings, steadily, rhythmically.

“She will take the lyre to Gabriella!” Vladimir cried, struggling against the hold of the creatures.

Percival looked upon Vladimir with contempt. “I was hoping to see my dear Gabriella. I know that

she is behind this little recovery mission. She has become quite elusive over the years.”

Vladimir closed his eyes. He recalled that Gabriella’s infiltration into the Grigori family had been

a sensation in the angelological community, the largest, most influential undercover job of the 1940s.

Indeed, her work had paved the way for modern surveillance of the Nephilistic families and brought

them useful information. But it had created a dangerous legacy for all of them. After so many years,

Percival Grigori still wanted revenge.

Leaning heavily upon his cane, Grigori hobbled to Vladimir. “Tell me,” he said. “Where is she?”

Percival leaned close to Vladimir, so that he could see the purple pouches under Percival’s eyes,

thick as bruises on his white skin. His teeth were perfectly even, so white they seemed plated in

pearl. And yet Percival was aging—a net of fine lines had developed about his mouth. He must have

reached at least three hundred years.

“I remember you,” Percival said, narrowing his eyes as if comparing the man before him with one

in his memory. “You were in my presence in Paris. I recall your face, although time has changed you

almost beyond recognition. You helped Gabriella to deceive me.”

“And you,” Vladimir said, recovering his equilibrium, “betrayed everything you believed in—your

family, your ancestors. Even now you haven’t forgotten her. Tell me: How badly do you miss

Gabriella Lévi-Franche?”

“Where is she?” Percival said, staring into Vladimir’s eyes.

“That I will never tell you,” Vladimir said, his voice catching as he spoke. He knew that with those

words he had chosen to die.

Percival released the ivory-headed cane from his grip. It fell to the floor, sending a sharp echo

through the church. He placed his long, cold fingers upon Vladimir’s chest, as if to feel his heartbeat.

An electrical vibration surged through Vladimir, shattering his ability to think. In the last minutes of

his life, his lungs burning for air, Vladimir was drawn into the horrifying translucency of his killer’s

eyes. They were pale and ringed with red, intense as a chemical fire stabilized in a frozen

atmosphere.

As Vladimir’s consciousness dissolved, he remembered the delicious sensation of the lyre’s body,

heavy and cool in his hands, and how he had longed to hear its ethereal melody.

Rockefeller Center Ice Skating Rink, Fifth Avenue, New York City

Evangeline glanced at the rink, following the skaters’ slow, circular progress. Colored lights fell

upon the glossy surface of the ice, skittering under blades and disappearing in the shadows. In the

distance a tremendous Christmas tree rose against a solid gray building, its red and silver lights

glinting like a million fireflies captured in a glass cone. Rows of majestic herald angels, their wings

delicate and white as lily petals, stood below the tree like a legion of sentries, their wire bodies

illuminated, their elongated brass trumpets raised in choral praise to the heavens. The shops along the

concourse—bookstores and clothing stores, stationery shops and chocolatiers—had begun to close,

sending customers into the night with gifts and shopping bags tucked under their arms.

Pulling her overcoat close, Evangeline wrapped herself in a cocoon of warmth. She cradled the

cold metal casket—the crossbars of the lyre tucked safely inside—in her hands. At her side, Bruno

Bechstein and Alistair Carroll scanned the masses beyond the rink. Hundreds and hundreds of people

filled the plaza. “White Christmas” played through a tiny overhead speaker, its melody punctuated by

laughter from the skating rink. Fifteen minutes remained until the designated meeting time, and the

others were nowhere to be found. The air was crisp, smelling of snow. Evangeline inhaled, and a fit