important thing is to put the pressure on. I’ll go after the car. They’re sure to meet up with Eno at
some point.”
Verlaine picked up his gun, tucked it into his pocket, and ran, knowing he had to catch her, corner
her, stun her, and restrain her, skills Bruno had drilled into him year after year. Verlaine had done it
time and time again, first on the Golobium, working his way up to the Gibborim, and then, finally, to
the Nephilim. He had learned to match the pace of the creature, choose the precise moment to reveal
his presence, and then, when he had maneuvered it into position, capture it. And yet he had never
tasted the sweetness of a creature like Eno.
She turned onto Nevsky Prospect, a wide thoroughfare lined with boutiques and galleries, and
ducked into a shop, its polished window filled with leather luggage, scarves, and handbags. Pausing
outside the door, he wondered if he should go in after her or wait. Neither choice presented itself as a
good option. She knew he was following her. If he went inside, she’d run. If he stood outside, she
might find a way to escape through another exit. Verlaine leaned on the glass and squinted. Beautiful,
well-dressed women filled the shop. Eno stood at a glass display filled with wallets and accessories.
She dialed a number and brought her phone to her ear, all the while examining the pattern of a silk
scarf—a white foulard with black flecks that matched, as she tied it around her neck, her white beret,
and black cape. After a few minutes she turned off the phone, slid it into her bag, paid for the scarf,
and walked back out onto the street. Verlaine hid and watched her walk away.
If Eno had detected Verlaine, she didn’t alter her behavior in the least. She stepped off Nevsky
Prospect, toward the Neva, her pace quickening. Verlaine increased his speed, his determination to
catch her growing stronger each second. Her stiletto heels made her seem enormous among the human
beings around her. He walked faster and faster, until finally he broke into a run, the cool wind
blowing through his hair. It was not a question of whether he could catch her—he was determined to
apprehend her no matter what it took. Rather it was a question of how far she would go to evade him.
If he knew anything at all about the Emim, he knew that Eno would keep going.
Even as he followed her, something in him pulled back. He saw himself at a remove, as if he were
outside of the scene, looking on his movements from high above the city: a man in a bloodstained
yellow sport coat pushing his way along the crowded bridge over the river, dodging traffic as he
crossed the street at the Hermitage.
Verlaine glanced at the great block of the Winter Palace rising before him once again. The
buildings seemed even more massive in the afternoon sunlight than they had when he’d arrived before
dawn. It seemed like a lifetime ago when he’d held out the egg, unaware that it was more than an
ornate bauble.
When Eno turned down a tree-lined side street, Verlaine saw his opening. Although the
labyrinthine ancient quarter behind the Winter Palace wasn’t as sheltered as he would have liked—
not a dark alley or an enclosed courtyard or a deserted tunnel in a subway station—it would have to
do. He didn’t have much time to make his move. If he was going to get her, it had to be now.
As if sensing his intention, Eno increased her pace. He matched her gait, gaining on her from
behind, his entire body tingling with anticipation. After all of the years of tracking angels, he still
found the hunt exhilarating and terrifying. Eno’s effect upon him—the mixture of fear and disbelief
that left him jittery and anxious—was similar to what he’d felt the first time he had chased a creature,
years before. He moved closer and closer, until he was dangerously, recklessly near her, so close that
he could smell her thick scent—a musky smell that marked her kind. He’d first heard the scent
described as ambroisal—it is in some of the earliest recorded descriptions of the creatures—but to
Verlaine it was a rotten odor, like a decaying animal, an odor that distinguished the lesser breeds
from the more refined scent of the Nephilim. He felt the air chill between them and he grew tense,
overwhelmed by the proximity. Her pale skin glowed; her features were sharp, aquiline. When she
looked over her shoulder, he saw that her eyes were amber, more golden than anything in the natural
world. The very traits that painters had used to represent angels from the Renaissance onward were
imprinted upon her face: She had wide symmetric eyes, a broad forehead, and high cheekbones, the
characteristics that had come to be the hallmark of angelic beauty. It was no mystery why angel
hunters kept chasing her. Eno was ravishing.