were the work of Albrecht Dürer, a fifteenth-century artist, mathematician, and angelologist whom
Vera deeply admired. His Apocalypse series was taught extensively in angelological courses as a
vision of what would happen if the Watchers were ever released from their subterranean prison.
But these etchings seemed like a departure for Dürer. Oddly, they reminded her of the photographs
taken by Seraphina Valko during the Second Angelic Expedition, in 1943. The renowned Dr. Valko
and her team had located a dead angel’s body, measured it, photographed it, and positively identified
it as belonging to one of the Watchers who had been banished from Heaven for falling in love with
human women.
Vera had seen the photos firsthand, during a conference in Paris the year before. Although they
were black-and-white, taken in conditions that were far from ideal, the body of the dead angel was
clearly visible. The long limbs, the hairless chest, the ringlets of hair falling over its shoulders, the
full lips—the creature seemed vital and healthy, as if it had only closed its eyes for a moment. Only a
broken wing fanning from the torso, its feathers folded at an unnatural angle, revealed the truth: The
angel had been dead for thousands of years. The creature was male, with all the recognizable organs
of human anatomy, a truth the pictures demonstrated with graphic accuracy. Seraphina Valko’s
photographs proved that the Watchers were physical beings, more like humanity than traditionally
believed. Angels were not sexless beings but physical creatures whose bodies were but a more
perfect expression of the human body. And most important of all, the photos had proven that angels
were capable of fathering children. All of Vera’s ideas about the Watchers, and all the work she had
done to support her theories, depended upon this conclusion.
Vera drew away from the window and leaned against her desk, a Brezhnev-era affair with rusting
metal legs. She slid open a drawer and removed the envelope she’d hidden under a stack of
magazines. The portfolio was too bulky to keep on her desk, where anyone stopping by to chat could
see it. With such limited access hours to the Hermitage, and the strict ban on bringing objects up from
the storage rooms, she had had little choice but to smuggle the prints out of their tomb. It was her only
hope for making progress on her own research. If there was one thing she knew about her field, it was
this: Nobody was going to help her to advance but herself.
Gently unwinding the string of the clasp, she spread the sketches over the desk, marveling at the
intricacy of the figures, the leaden hue of the line, the sheer genius of Dürer’s composition.
Originally, it was her fascination with Dürer’s artistry that drew her to covet the etchings. But now, in
the privacy of her office, the drawings seemed to become animated with movement and energy. Only
an artist as masterful as Dürer could make a viewer viscerally understand how a Watcher could, like
Zeus, seduce a virgin. Gazing at the prints, Vera imagined the encounter: In a swirl of wind, an angel
appears before a young woman. He opens his wings, blinding her with his brilliance. She blinks, tries
to understand who or what has come to her, but is too afraid to speak. The angel tries to comfort her,
wrapping the terrified woman in his wings. There is a moment of terror and empathy and attraction.
Vera wanted to feel it: the tangle of feathers and flesh, the heat of the embrace, the conflating of pain
and pleasure and fear and desire.
Aeroflot Ilyushin IL-96 300, economy class, 35,000 feet above Europe
The lights in the cabin had been switched off. Most of the passengers were twisted in their seats,
trying to sleep. Bruno pulled down the plastic table and set out his dinner, bought at Roissy before
boarding: a baguette sandwich with ham and a bottle of red wine from Burgundy. If there was one
thing he understood about the present situation, it was that he couldn’t think on an empty stomach.
Bruno found two plastic cups and poured the wine. Verlaine accepted one, took a pillbox from his
pocket, and swallowed two pills, washing them down with the wine. He was obviously too jittery to
eat anything. Verlaine tried to hide his state of mind, but Bruno could see it clearly: Finding
Evangeline had opened a door to another lifetime, one Verlaine had nearly forgotten. Bruno knew, at
that moment, that his suspicions about Verlaine were correct: His Achilles’ heel, that secret weakness
he’d detected, was now clear.
No one knew it, he hoped, but Bruno was also wrestling with his own demons: He couldn’t forget
Eno—the way she moved, her strength, her beauty. Calling up the profile he’d downloaded onto his
phone, he scrolled through the supplementary documents, glancing at the DNA report before stopping