“If you do that,” Vera said, “what will happen to Lucien?”
Valko sighed. It was evident that he had considered the question many times, and that facing the
scrutiny of his fellow angelologists made him uneasy and defensive. “I believe that it will affect only
the most base qualities of angelic creatures,” he said at last. “But I can’t be certain. It is a sacrifice
Lucien must be willing to make. There is, indeed, much suffering ahead. We must strike hard against
angelic creatures, with all the weapons at our disposal. Noah’s medicine is one part of our attack.
The Watchers—who are at the root of the entire history of evil—must be dealt with now as well.”
“You can’t be serious,” Azov said, his anger rising as he stepped close to Valko, looking him
directly in the eye. “You know the potential consequences of releasing the Watchers. They could fight
the Nephilim, yes, but they could also turn on humanity. You will put all of us in danger.”
Valko folded his hands on the table and closed his eyes. For a moment Vera believed he was
saying a prayer, as if he were asking for divine guidance in what he was about to do. Finally he
opened his eyes and said, “This was the case with our forefathers, the noble men who came here for
the First Angelic Expedition, and it is our work still. Danger is something we accept in our work,
Hristo. Death is something we accept. We cannot go back now.” Valko slid the vessel into his pocket.
“The time has come for us to move, Lucien. Let’s go.”
• • •
The black water of the twisting river rushed by, sweeping into the darkness beyond as they climbed
into a wobbling rowboat. Sitting in the prow next to Sveti, Vera saw a waterfall at the head of the
river, the thick mist rising before the endless hollow of cave. She understood why legend designated
the river as Styx, the river of the dead: As they glided across the water she felt a heaviness descend, a
dark emptiness so complete it was as though her life had been stolen away. The living could not enter
the land of the dead.
With Valko and Azov’s help, she and Sveti rowed toward the opposite shore, the boat rising and
falling with the current. Lucien stood on the other side, waiting. He had gone ahead to open the door
to the Watchers’ prison. In the absolute darkness of the cavern, his body seemed even brighter than it
had in his room. His white wings sparkled with a strange brilliance, as if each feather had been inlaid
with crystals. Vera watched him carefully, realizing that she’d never measured herself—her body, her
mind, her strength, her speed—against any angelic creature before. All of her limitations, all of her
human weaknesses, became clear by comparison.
The opposite bank of the river seemed empty at first, but upon closer inspection, Vera made out a
cadre of glowing beings arriving upon the shore, arraying themselves in a great fan behind Lucien,
their skin throwing off a tempered, diaphanous light. There were between fifty and one hundred
angels, each one as lovely as the next. Their wings seemed to be made of gold leaf, and rings of light
floated over their masses of blond curls. But even in their pure angelic splendor, the Watchers were
no match for Lucien.
Stunned by the spectacle, Vera was torn between horror that she’d gotten herself into this situation
and a desperate desire to examine the angels. It became apparent that a small number of the Watchers
acted as leaders to the others. They walked among their brothers, directing them to stand in rows,
organizing their legions as if preparing for battle. After they had been arrayed in perfect regiments,
fanning along the riverside in bands of light, the leaders stood at Lucien’s side like royal guards.
With a clattering of wings, the angels rose to attention, their bodies blazing in brilliant bands of fire
against the darkness. They were coming to the water, closing in on the boat, moving forward at a
steady pace. Vera’s awe and terror swelled as the creatures approached. As the angels moved closer,
the fire burnished the surface of the river, gilding the black with gold.
In a flurry of wind and wings that seemed to come out of nowhere, Lucien rose into the air, landing
between the angelologists and the Watchers. He was their superior in every way. The Watchers
stopped before the archangel’s son and, in a sweeping movement, knelt before him.
“Brothers,” Lucien said, “in heaven, I am of a superior caste. But here, in the wilderness of exile,
we are equals.”
The Watchers stood, light undulating over the craggy walls of the gorge. Vera detected curiosity
and fear and hesitation in the angels’ silence.