conversation, oblivious that his attempts at secrecy only made Evangeline more intent to hear him.
Vladimir sighed heavily and said, “If you must know, they are holding them in the warehouse.” He
spoke so quietly that Evangeline could just barely hear his voice. “I got a call last night. They have
three of them, one female and two males.”
“From Europe?”
“They were captured in the Pyrenees,” Vladimir said. “They arrived here late last night. I was
going to go myself, but, to be honest, I cannot bring myself to do it any longer. We are growing old,
Luca.”
A waiter stopped at their table and placed two cups of espresso before them.
Her father sipped his espresso. “They are still alive, yes?”
“Very much so,” Vladimir said, shaking his head. “I hear they are horrifying creatures—very pure.
I don’t understand how they managed to transport them to New York. In the old days, it would have
taken a ship and full crew to get them here so quickly. If they are of the pure stock that they claim, it
would be nearly impossible to contain them. I didn’t think it possible.”
“Angela would have known more about the details of their physical capabilities than I,” her father
said, folding his hands before him and staring out the plate-glass window as if Evangeline’s mother
might appear into the sun-filled pane before him. “It was the focus of her studies. But I believe there
is a growing consensus that the Famous Ones have been growing weaker, even the purest of them.
Perhaps they are so weak they can be captured with more ease.”
Vladimir bent closer to her father, his eyes wide. “Do you mean to say that they are dying out?”
“Not exactly dying out,” her father said. “But there has been speculation that their vitality is in
serious decline. Their strength is diminishing.”
“But how is that possible?” Vladimir asked, astonished.
“Angela used to say that one day their blood would be mixed too thoroughly with human blood. She
believed that they would become too like us, too human to maintain their unique physical properties. I
believe that it is something along the lines of negative evolution—they have reproduced with inferior
specimens, human beings, far too often.”
Her father put out his cigarette in a plastic ashtray and took another sip of his espresso.
“They can retain the traits of angels only so long, and only if they do not interbreed. The time will
come when their humanity will overtake them and all of their children will be born with
characteristics that can only be described as inferior—shorter life spans, susceptibility to disease, a
tendency toward morality. Their last hope will be to infuse themselves with pure angelic traits, and
this, as we know, is beyond their abilities. They have been plagued by human traits. Angela used to
speculate that the Nephilim are beginning to feel emotion as humans do. Compassion, love, kindness
—everything that we define ourselves by may be emerging in them. In fact,” her father concluded,
“they consider this a great weakness.”
Vladimir leaned back in his chair and folded his hands upon his chest, as if thinking this over.
“Their demise is not impossible,” he said at last. “And yet how can we say what is and is not
possible? Their very existence defies the intellect. But we have seen them, you and I. We have lost
much to them, my friend.” Vladimir met her father’s eye.
Her father said, “Angela believed that the Nephilistic immune system reacted negatively to human-
made chemicals and pollutants. She believed that these unnatural elements worked to break down the
cellular structures inherited from the Watchers, creating a form of deadly cancer. Another theory she
had was that the change in their diet over the past two hundred years has altered their body chemistry,
thus affecting reproduction. Angela had studied a number of the creatures with degenerative diseases
that severely shortened their life span, but she did not come to any definitive conclusion. Nobody
knows for certain what is causing it, but whatever the cause, the creatures are surely desperate to stop
it.”
“You know very well what will stop it,” Vladimir said, his voice soft.
“Exactly,” her father said. “To that end, Angela even began testing many of your theories, Vladimir,
to determine whether your musicological speculations had a biological significance as well. I’ve
suspected that she was on the brink of something monumental and that this is why she was killed.”
Vladimir fingered his demitasse. “Celestial musicology is no weapon. Its uses as such are wishful