The First Circle
LIMBO
Allée des Refuzniks, Eiffel Tower, seventh arrondissement, Paris, 2010
V. A. Verlaine pushed through the barrier of gendarmes, making his way toward the body. It was
nearly midnight, the neighborhood deserted, and yet the entire perimeter of the Champ de Mars—from
the quai Branly to the avenue Gustave Eiffel—had been blocked by police cars, the red and blue
lights pulsing through the darkness. A floodlight had been set up in a corner of the scene, the harsh
illumination revealing a mutilated body resting in a pool of electric blue blood. The features of the
victim were unreadable, the body broken and bloodied, her arms and legs angling at unnatural
positions like branches cracked from a tree. The phrase “ripped to shreds” passed through Verlaine’s
mind.
He had studied the creature as it died, watching the wings unfold over its body. He’d watched it
shiver with pain, listening to its sharp, animal grunts as they dulled to a weak whine. The wounds
were severe—a deep cut to the head and another to the chest—and yet it seemed that the creature
would never stop struggling, that its determination to survive was endless, that it would fight on and
on, even as blood seeped over the ground in a thick dark syrup. Finally, a milky film had fallen over
the creature’s eyes, giving it the vacant stare of a lizard, and Verlaine knew the angel had died at last.
As he looked over his shoulder, his jaw grew tense. Beyond the ring of police stood every variety
of creature—a living encyclopedia of beings who would kill him if they knew he could see them for
what they were. He paused, assuming the cold, appraising position of a scholar as he cataloged the
creatures in his mind: There were congregations of Mara angels, the beautiful and doomed prostitutes
whose gifts were such a temptation to humans; Gusian angels, who could divine the past and the
future; the Rahab angels, broken beings who were considered the untouchables of the angelic world.
He could detect the distinguishing features of Anakim angels—the sharp fingernails, the wide
forehead, the slightly irregular skeletal structure. He saw it all with a relentless clarity that lingered
in his mind even as he turned back to the frenzy surrounding the murder. The victim’s blood had begun
to seep past the contours of the floodlight, oozing into the shadows. He tried to focus upon the
ironwork of the Eiffel Tower, to steady himself, but the creatures consumed his attention. He could
not take his eyes off their wings fluttering against the inky darkness of the night.
Verlaine had discovered his ability to see the creatures ten years before. The skill was a gift—very
few people could actually see angel wings without extensive training. As it turned out, Verlaine’s
flawed vision—he had worn glasses since the fifth grade and could hardly see a foot in front of
himself without them—allowed light into the eye in exactly the right proportion for him to see the full
spectrum of angel wings. He’d been born to be an angel hunter.
Now Verlaine could not block out the colored light rising around the angelic creatures, the fields of
energy that separated these beings from the flat, colorless spaces occupied by humans. He found
himself tracking them as they moved around the Champ de Mars, noting their movements even while
wishing to shut out their hallucinatory pull. Sometimes he was sure that he was going crazy, that the
creatures were his personal demons, that he lived in a custom-made circle of hell in which an endless
variety of devils were paraded before him, as if amassed for the purpose of taunting and torturing
him.
But these were the kinds of thoughts that could land him in a sanitarium. He had to be careful to
keep his balance, to remember that he saw things at a higher frequency than normal people, that his
gift was something he must cultivate and protect even as it hurt him. Bruno, his friend and mentor, the
man who had brought him from New York and trained him as an angel hunter, had given him pills to
calm his nerves, and although Verlaine tried to take as few as possible, he found himself reaching for
an enamel box in his jacket pocket and tapping out two white pills.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned. Bruno stood behind him, his expression severe. “The
cuts are indicative of an Emim attack,” he said under his breath.
“The charred skin confirms that,” Verlaine said. He unbuttoned his jacket—a vintage yellow 1970s
polyester sport coat of questionable taste—and stepped close to the body. “Does it have any kind of
identification?”
His mentor removed a wallet, its pale suede stained with blood, and began to sort through it.
Suddenly Bruno’s expression changed. He held up a plastic card.