picked up a copy of the Moscow daily and tried to make out the Cyrillic, but the alphabet meant
nothing to him. That he could puzzle over the angular symbols all morning and they would signify
nothing at all was strangely pleasing to him.
A man brushed by him and he turned, feeling the hair stand up at the back of his neck. He
recognized the static in the air, the sense of abeyance as everything froze and then broke apart.
Looking more closely, he saw that the man’s skin oozed a slick of plasma, that the structure of the
shoulders and back corresponded to Nephil wings, that the distinctive scent of the Nephilim followed
him. He recognized the velvet suit and the elegance of his comportment: One of the twins from St.
Petersburg was on the train.
Verlaine began following the creature, retracing his steps back toward the bathroom, through the
second-class sleeping berths with their tatty lace curtains, a smoking car, the dining car smelling of
black tea. They were nearing the back of the train. The creature stopped at a door with a gold plate
that read PRIVATE LOUNGE. He pressed a button on an intercom system and a voice responded in Russian. The
words were incomprehensible and, suddenly, the pleasurable dislocation Verlaine had felt only
moments before became irritating. It was imperative that he understand everything happening around
him.
Soon a muscular hulk of a man opened the door, mumbled a few words to the creature—Verlaine
recognized the voice from the intercom—and motioned him inside. Verlaine followed the creature.
He made sure the bouncer was human, and then slipped him a wad of euros, which the bouncer
shoved into his jeans as he let Verlaine pass. The thump of music echoed through a narrow,
dilapidated compartment. The scent of alcohol and cigarette smoke suffused the air. There were neon
lights, cocktail waitresses in trashy lace corsets and stiletto heels, and leather couches where
Nephilim lounged with drinks. The Nephil creature nodded at the bartender, who picked up a phone,
and, after speaking with someone, waved him toward the back of the room.
Verlaine remembered what the doctor had said—that he should stay away from danger of any kind
—and wondered if it was wise to have put himself in such a situation. Everyone had heard stories of
agents brutally slaughtered during failed stints undercover. It was a fairly common occurrence,
especially in the provincial outposts. The Nephilim could kill him and nobody in Paris would know
what had happened. Yana might send the news back to France, although who could say if she could be
considered trustworthy. Instinctively, he and Bruno had accepted her identity at face value, taking her
skill as a hunter as proof of her authenticity. As he moved deeper into the lounge, Verlaine began to
feel a prickling sensation of fear. If he needed to escape, there was no way out of there.
Although Verlaine had never seen Sneja Grigori before, he knew at once that this was the matriarch
of the Grigori family. She lay on a leather couch, her body stretched from one end to the other. Two
Anakim angels hovered over her, one feeding her pieces of baklava and the other holding a tray with
a flute of champagne. Sneja was so enormous that Verlaine wondered how she had walked onto the
train, and how she would, when the train reached its destination, descend. She wore what looked like
a silk curtain wrapped around her body, and her hair had been tucked up into a turban. As he came
closer to the bed, Sneja lifted her great, toadlike eyes. “Welcome to Siberia,” she said, assessing him
with a sharp gaze. Her voice was gravelly, abrasive, smoky. “My nephews predicted that you would
be coming, although they did not have the slightest notion that you would be making the trip as my
personal guest.”
“Your nephews?” Verlaine said. Glancing behind Sneja, he saw that the first twin had been joined
by his brother. They stood side by side, beautiful as cherubs, their blond hair curling around their
shoulders, their large eyes fixed upon Verlaine.
“You met them in St. Petersburg,” Sneja said, taking a piece of baklava and placing it delicately on
her tongue. “With our favorite mercenary angel, Eno, who I believe will be—with the assistance of
my nephews—breaking free any moment.”
Sneja nodded to the twins, who turned and walked toward the exit.
“Now,” Sneja said, clasping her flute of champagne and taking a long sip. “Tell me what you know
about my granddaughter.”
Verlaine narrowed his eyes, trying to read Sneja’s expression through the thick smoke. It seemed to
him that she was a sea creature emerging from the murk of a dark ocean. “I don’t know who you
mean,” he said at last.
“With the thousands of possible ways that I could kill you—the slow and painful death, the quick