Angelology(209)

were formed like those of a Nephilistic child, but from our studies—and the work Angela had

conducted on Nephilistic decline—we knew that a large percentage of Nephilim do not grow wings

at all. Genetics are not enough. There have to be many other factors present.”

Gabriella touched Evangeline’s wings as if taken in by their shimmering beauty. Evangeline pulled

away, repulsed.

“You meant to trick me,” Evangeline said. “You believed I would destroy the lyre. You knew what

I would become.”

“I had always feared that it would be Angela—her resemblance to Percival was so strong. But I

believed that even if the worst happened and she became like him physically, she would transcend

him in spirit.”

“But my mother wasn’t like me,” Evangeline said. “She was human.”

Perhaps sensing the conflict raging in Evangeline’s thoughts, Gabriella said, “Yes, your mother

was human in every way. She was gentle, compassionate. She loved your father with a human heart.

Perhaps it was a mother’s delusion, but I believed that Angela could defy her origins. Her work led

us to believe that the creatures were dying out. We hoped for a new race of Nephilim to rise, one in

which human traits would overcome. I believed that if her biological structure was Nephilistic, it

would be her fate to be the first of this new breed. But it was not Angela’s destiny. It is yours.”

As the train rattled to a stop, and the doors slid back, Gabriella drew her granddaughter close.

Evangeline could hardly make out Gabriella’s words. “Run, Evangeline,” she whispered urgently.

“Take the lyre and destroy it. Do not fall prey to the temptations you feel. It is up to you to do what is

right. Run, my darling, and do not look back.”

Evangeline rested a moment in Gabriella’s arms, the warmth and security of her grandmother’s

body reminding her of the safety she had once felt in the presence of her mother. Gabriella squeezed

her once more and, with a small push, released her.

Brooklyn Bridge—City Hall station, New York City

Percival took Gabriella by the arms and pulled her from the train. She was light in his grasp, her

wrists thin and breakable as twigs. She had never been a match for him, but in Paris she’d been strong

enough to put up some resistance. Now she was so feeble, so unresisting that he could harm her

without effort. He almost wished she were stronger. He wanted to watch her struggle as he killed her.

The terror in her eyes as he dragged her along the platform would have to suffice. When he

clutched her collar, the tiny buttons of her black jacket broke free, scattering across the concrete of

the platform like so many beetles fleeing the light. Her exposed skin was pale and wrinkled, except

where a thick pink scar curved along the upper edge of her breastbone. Once he had reached a

darkened stairwell at the far end of the platform, he threw her down the steps and bounded after her

until his shadow cut across her. She tried to roll away, but he held her to the cold concrete floor,

pinning her with his knee. He would not let her go.

He placed his hands over her heart. It beat quick and strong against his palms, the pulse as rapid as

a small animal’s. “Gabriella, my cherub,” he said, but she would not look at him or speak to him in

return. Yet as he slid his hands across her tiny rib cage, he could feel her fear: His palms became wet

with the sweat that coated her skin. He closed his eyes. He’d been starving for her for many decades.

To his delight, she turned under him, twisting and writhing, but there was no point in the struggle. Her

life belonged to him.

When he gazed upon Gabriella again, she was dead. Her great green eyes were fixed open, as clear

and beautiful as the day he’d met her. He could not explain it, but a moment of tenderness fell over

him. He touched her cheek, her black hair, her small hands encased in tight leather gloves. The kill

had been glorious, and yet his heart ached.

A sound drew Percival’s attention to the platform. Evangeline stood watching at the top of the

stairs, her spectacular wings extended from her body. He had never seen anything like them—they

rose from her back in perfect symmetry, pulsing in rhythm with her breath. Even at the height of his

youth, his wings had not been so regal. Still, he, too, was growing stronger. Exposure to the lyre’s

music had given him renewed strength. When he possessed the lyre for himself, he would be more

powerful than he’d ever been before.

Percival approached Evangeline. His muscles did not cramp; the bite of the harness no longer

slowed him. The lyre was cradled in Evangeline’s hands, its metal gleaming. Fighting an urge to