Angelopolis(14)

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