With an elegant flick of her wings, Eno descended and walked to Evangeline. She was trembling
from the effort, her long black hair falling over her shoulders, her breathing heavy. She stood over
Evangeline and drew her wings back, preparing to deliver a final blow, when Evangeline pushed Eno
with an inhuman strength, landing a hit to the solar plexus.
“Very nice,” Bruno said under his breath, and Verlaine had to agree: The solar plexus was the
weakest point of all angelic creatures. A solid strike there could end the duel in a second.
“The Emim angel isn’t wearing a shield,” Verlaine noted, surprised. Mercenary angels often
protected thier chest.
“She likes the challenge,” Bruno said. “And if she gets hit, she likes the pain.”
Eno buckled, raising her hands to defend herself. Evangeline kicked again, striking her with
enormous force, her movements precise, perfectly delivered, vicious. In a matter of seconds she
gained dominance over her opponent, pinning her to the floor, pressing her boot into the curve of her
elegant neck, as if to crush her throat. Evangeline was the stronger angel. She had the power and the
skill to kill Eno if she chose, kill her without effort, kill her as easily as if she were pressing the body
of an insect under her boot. Despite himself, Verlaine was proud of her. He watched, waiting for her
to deliver the death blow.
Instead, Evangeline bent on one knee and folded her wings over her shoulders in submission.
Verlaine stared, shocked, as Eno recovered her bearing and, losing no time, began to bind
Evangeline’s hands behind her back. Evangeline met his eye, and he knew, with one look, that this act
of surrender was a message for him. Evangeline had the powers of the Nephilim, but she chose not to
be one of them. It was clear now that all his dreams, and every angel he had tracked, had led him back
to Evangeline. Now he was about to lose her again.
Bruno must have been thinking the same thing, because he was ready to go after Evangeline. He
stepped forward, his gun in his hand. Verlaine knew the standard procedure: Shoot the creature with
an electric stunning device, sending a stream of electricity at the angel until the wings were
immobilized. The stunned creature would lose control and fall to the ground, where the angel hunter
would bind it. Verlaine felt a rush of panic at the thought of harming Evangeline. Although the method
was meant to simply stun the furcula, the force of the electricity could cause enormous pain.
“Don’t shoot,” Verlaine whispered, panic making him feel unsteady as he moved across the slate
tiles toward Bruno.
“It’s not Evangeline I’m after,” Bruno said under his breath.
Eno yanked Evangeline to her feet, wrapped an arm around her waist, and, with a push of her
wings, flew into the night. Bruno and Verlaine stood in silence, watching Eno ascend. It seemed to
Verlaine that a part of himself was in Eno’s hands, that as she moved farther and farther into the sky,
he, too, was beginning to fade away. When Bruno put his hand on Verlaine’s shoulder, Verlaine
wanted to believe that his mentor understood his burning anger, his rage, his need for revenge.
“We’re going after them,” Verlaine said.
“It’s useless to try to track Eno in Paris,” Bruno said, as he walked to the edge of the roof and
began to climb down to the balcony. “If we want to capture her, we’ll have to hunt her on her own
territory.”
The Second Circle
LUST
Winter Palace, State Hermitage Museum, St. Petersburg
If Vera Varvara were permitted to do as she wished, she would leave her office, with its chipping
white plaster and disorderly papers, and walk through the vast Baroque hallways of the Winter
Palace. She would make her way through the ancient corridors, with their gilded mirrors and cut
crystal chandeliers, free as a child in a palace built of rock candy. She would cross the immense
Palace Square, walk under the arches of the southern façade, and wander to the museum, where a
flash of her ID card would open every door. Among paintings and tapestries and porcelains and
statues—all the beautiful things amassed by the Romanovs during their three-hundred-year rule of
Russia—she would feel as unfettered as a princess.
Instead she twisted her long blond hair into a chignon, went to the window, and pushed the pane
open. There were angelic creatures below; she could feel them lingering, their presence like a high
frequency vibrating her ear. She ignored them and let the chill night wind sweep over her. A lifetime
in the swampy climate of St. Petersburg had given her a strong constitution, one that resisted every
kind of illness and allowed her to get through harsh winters without much discomfort. Vera was