of this kind among his possessions. Xenia found it wrapped in a cloth at the back of one of his
suitcases. She believed he’d brought it to New York from Paris in the eighties. Xenia didn’t know
what to do with it, so she simply held on to it. But then, a few months ago, she took it to an auction
house to have it appraised and, not long after this, strange things started happening. Nephilim began to
follow her. They searched her apartment and the café. By the time she told me about the egg, she was
terrified. One night two Gibborim broke into her apartment and tried to steal the egg. I killed one and
the other escaped. After this I knew that I needed to tell her the truth. I explained everything to her—
our fathers’ work, the Nephilim, even my own situation—and, to my surprise, she knew more about
Vladimir’s work than I had initially believed. Eventually Xenia agreed to close the shop and
disappear. I took the egg. It’s why I came here. I had to find someone who could help me explain what
it means.”
“And Xenia?”
“If I hadn’t intervened, Xenia would be dead.”
“Was that her body at the Eiffel Tower?”
“No.” Evangeline shook her head, her expression serious. “That was just some random Nephil who
looked a bit like me. I planted my ID on her and led the Emim to believe she was me.”
Verlaine considered this, realizing how far Evangeline had gone in her efforts to survive. “So they
think you’re dead,” he said at last.
Evangeline sighed, a look of relief on her face. “I hope so,” she said. “It will give me enough time
to hide.”
As Verlaine considered Evangeline, his eyes drifted to her neck, where a chain of bright gold
glittered against her skin. She still wore her pendant, the very one she had worn the day they’d met.
Legend had it that the infamous angelologist Dr. Raphael Valko had fashioned three amulets from a
rare and precious metal called Valkine. One pendant he had worn himself, one he had given to his
daughter, Angela, and the third was worn by his wife, Gabriella. Evangeline inherited Angela’s
pendant upon her mother’s death; Verlaine wore Gabriella’s pendant, which he had taken when
Gabriella died. Verlaine brought his fingers to his neck and pulled out the pendant, showing it to
Evangeline.
Evangeline paused, looked for a moment at the pendant. “I was right, then,” she said, reaching for
the egg in his hand. The brush of her finger against his palm gave him such a shock that he nearly
dropped it. “You’re meant to have this. Gabriella would have wanted it that way. Keep it safe.” She
closed her hand around his, as if locking his fingers around the egg.
“They want this thing,” Verlaine said, glancing down at the egg. “But what in the hell is it?”
“I don’t know,” Evangeline said, meeting his eye. “That is why I need you.”
“Me?” Verlaine said, unable to imagine how he could be of any use.
“You’re an angelologist now, aren’t you?” Evangeline asked, her voice challenging him. “If anyone
can help me understand this, it’s you.”
“Why not go to the others?” Verlaine asked.
Evangeline stepped away and the air around her seemed to fold, as if heat emanated from her
clothes. The smooth surface of the air buckled with electricity. Her human appearance dissolved in a
fluctuation of warped space, flesh wavering and twisting as if she were made of nothing but colored
smoke. A wash of light exploded around her as her wings unfolded.
Verlaine blinked, holding—for a strange and disorienting moment—Evangeline’s dual selves in his
vision, the surface illusion of a woman and the underlying reality of the winged creature. The images
of human and angel were like holograms that, with a turn of the light, bled into each other. She opened
her wings, extending first one and then the other, rotating them until they stretched to the walls of the
passage. They were immense and luminous, the layered feathers deep purple shot through with veins
of silver—and yet they were transparent, ephemeral, so light he could see the texture of the brick wall
behind them. He watched them vibrate with energy. They pulsed with the slow rhythm of her
breathing, brushing her shoulders and sending shivers through her hair.
He leaned against a wall, steadying himself. For years Verlaine had tried to imagine Evangeline’s
wings, to reconstruct them. When he had first seen them a decade before, it had been from a distance,
and with the untrained eyes of a man who couldn’t tell the difference between the varieties of angels.
Now he could decipher all the small distinctions that marked her, subtle as inclusions in quartz. He