Angelology(211)

Brooklyn Bridge rose against the night sky. It made her think of Verlaine, how she had trusted him.

“You are wrong,” she said, her anger uncontainable. “I have not joined you. I will never join you

or your murderous family.”

Evangeline lunged forward and, recalling the intense feeling of insecurity she’d felt when Percival

had touched her at the base of her wings, grasped the soft flesh on his back, took hold of the wing

nubs he’d taken such pride in showing her, and thrust him to the floor. She was surprised at her

strength—Percival hit the concrete hard. As he writhed in agony at her feet, she used her advantage to

hoist him to his stomach, exposing the nubs. She had broken one of the wings. The torn flesh oozed a

thick blue fluid. The flesh hung agape, and a great wound opened where the wing had been, allowing

her to witness the gruesome collapse of his lungs.

As Grigori died, his body transformed. The eerie whiteness of his skin dimmed, his golden hair

dissolved, his eyes turned into black vacancies, and the tiny wings crumbled to a fine metallic dust.

Evangeline bent and pressed her finger to the dust and, holding it aloft, so that she could see the

glittering grains sparkle against her skin, she blew it into the cold wind.

The lyre lay tucked under Percival’s arm. Evangeline eased it away from his body, relieved to

have it in her possession even as the hypnotic power it might cast terrified her. Overcome with

disgust at the sight of the corpse, she ran from Percival’s body, as if it might contaminate her. In the

distance the intersecting cables of the bridge wove across her line of vision. Floodlights illuminated

the granite towers that rose into the frigid night sky. If only she could cross the bridge and find her

father waiting for her to come home.

Climbing the concrete ramp, she emerged on a wooden platform that brought her to the pedestrian

walkway at the center of the bridge. Holding the lyre close, she ran. The wind hit her full force,

thrusting her back, yet she struggled forward, keeping her vision trained on the lights of Brooklyn. The

walkway was deserted, while a stream of cars sped by on either side of her, their headlights

flickering between the slats of the guardrail.

As she reached the first tower, Evangeline paused. Snow had begun to fall. Thick, wet flakes

drifted through the mesh of cables, alighting upon the lyre in her hand, upon the walkway, upon the

dark river below. The city stretched around her, its lights glimmering on the obsidian surface of the

East River as if it were a single dome of life in an endless void. Scanning the length of the bridge, she

felt her heart break. No one was waiting for her. Her father was dead. Her mother, Gabriella, the

sisters she’d grown to love—they were all gone. Evangeline was utterly alone.

With a flex of her muscles, she unfurled the wings on her back, opening them to their full span. It

surprised her how easily she could control them; it was as though she’d had them her whole life. She

stepped up onto the railing of the walkway, girding herself against the wind. Concentrating on the

stars glinting in the distance, she steadied herself. A gale threw her off kilter, but with an elegant twist

of her wings, she kept her balance. Stretching her wings, Evangeline pushed away from the solid

world. The wind lifted her into the air, past the thick steel cables, and up toward the abyss of sky.

Evangeline guided herself to the top of the tower. The pavement far below had been blanketed in a

layer of pure white snow. She felt strangely immune to the freezing air, as if she’d gone numb. Indeed,

she no longer felt much of anything at all. Gazing at the river, Evangeline drew herself inward, and in

a moment of determination she knew what she must do.

She brought the lyre between her hands. Pressing her palms around the cold edges of the base, she

felt the metal soften and grow warm. As she added pressure, the lyre grew less resistant in her hands,

as if the Valkine had reacted chemically with her skin and had begun a slow dissolution. Soon the lyre

began to glow with a molten heat against her flesh. In Evangeline’s grasp it had transformed into a

ball of fire brighter than any of the lights glowing in the sky above. For a fleeting moment, she was

tempted to keep the lyre intact. Then, remembering Gabriella’s words, she thrust the fire forth. It fell

like a shooting star to the river. Its light dissolved into the inky darkness.

Gabriella Léví, Franche Valko’s brownstone, Upper West Side,

Manhattan

Although Verlaine wanted to be of assistance to the angelologists, it was clear that he hadn’t the

training or the experience necessary to be of much help and so he stood at a remove, observing the