cause. Cultivating relations with the human members of Nephilim families was a tactical move, one
that might yield great results. A child born to Nephilim parents, without the slightest trace of angelic
traits, might in turn produce a Nephilistic offspring. It was an uncommon occurrence, to be sure, but
not unheard of To address this possibility, the Nephilim observed a tiered system, a caste relating not
to wealth or social status—although these criteria mattered as well—but to physical traits, to
breeding, to a resemblance to their ancestors, a group of angels called the Watchers. While humans
carried the genetic potential to create a Nephilistic child, the Nephilim themselves embodied the
angelic ideal. Only a Nephilistic being could develop wings. And Percival’s had been the most
magnificent anyone had seen in half a millennium.
He turned the pages of The Book of Generations, stopping randomly at a middle section of the
book. There was an etching of a noble merchant dressed in velvets and silks, a sword cocked in one
hand and a bag of gold in the other. An endless procession of women and slaves knelt around him,
awaiting his command, and a concubine stretched out upon a divan at his side, her arms draped over
her body. Caressing the picture, Percival read a one-line biography of the merchant describing him
“as an elusive nobleman who organized fleets to all corners of the uncivilized world, colonizing
wilderness and organizing the natives.” So much had changed in the past three hundred years, so many
parts of the globe subdued. The merchant would not recognize the world they lived in today.
Turning to another page, Percival happened upon one of his favorite tales in the book, the story of a
famous uncle on his father’s side—Sir Arthur Grigori, a Nephilim of great wealth and renown whom
Percival recalled as a marvelous storyteller. Born in the early seventeenth century, Sir Arthur had
made wise investments in many of the nascent shipping companies of the British Empire. His faith in
the East India Company alone had brought him enormous profit—as his manor house and his cottage
and his farmlands and his city apartments could well attest. While he was never directly involved in
overseeing his business ventures abroad, Percival knew that his uncle had undertaken journeys around
the globe and had amassed a great collection of treasures. Travel had always given him great
pleasure, especially when he explored the more exotic corners of the planet, but his primary motive
for distant excursion had been business. Sir Arthur had been known for his Svengali-like ability to
convince humans to do all he asked of them. Percival arranged the book in his lap and read:
Sir Arthur’s ship arrived just weeks after the infamous uprising of May 1857. From the seas to the
Gangetic Plain, in Meerut and Delhi and Kanpur and Lucknow and Jhansi and Gwalior, the Revolt
spread, wreaking discord among the hierarchies that governed the land. Peasants overtook their
masters, killing and maiming the British with sticks and sabers and whatever weapons they could
make or steal to suit their treachery. In Kanpur it was reported that two hundred European women and
children were massacred in a single morning, while in Delhi peasants spread gunpowder upon the
streets until they appeared covered in pepper. One imbecilic fellow lit a match for his bidi, blowing
all and sundry to pieces.
Sir Arthur, seeing that the East India Company had fallen into chaos and fearing that his profits
would be affected, called the Governor-General to his apartments one afternoon to discuss what
might be done between them to rectify the terrible events. The Governor-General, a portly, pink man
with a penchant for chutney, arrived in the hottest hour of the day, a flock of children about him—one
holding the umbrella, another holding a fan, and yet another balancing a glass of iced tea upon a tray.
Sir Arthur received him with the shades drawn, to keep away the glare of both the sun and curious
passersby.
“I must say, Governor-General,” Sir Arthur began, “a revolt is no great greeting.”
“No, sir,” the Governor-General replied, adjusting a polished gold monocle over a bulbous blue
eye. “And it is no great farewell, either.”
Seeing that they understood one another very well, the men discussed the matter. For hours they
dissected the causes and effects of the revolt. In the end Sir Arthur had a suggestion. “There must be
an example made,” he said, drawing a long cigar from a balsam box and lighting it with a lighter, an
imprint of the Grigori family crest etched upon its side. “It is essential to drive fear into their hearts.
One must create a spectacle that will terrify them into compliance. Together we will choose a village.