get the angel, if you find her, and get back out. All of this depends, of course, on your ability to get to
his lab without being detected. I can take care of the security cameras in the panopticon itself, but
that’s as far as I go. You can leave Russia when this is over. I have to continue my career here.”
As Bruno slid into a bulletproof vest, he couldn’t help but wonder if what they were doing was
worth the risk. Gabriella would have wanted him to go after Evangeline at any cost—he knew this in
his heart, but he also knew that more was at stake than recovering a half-human half-angel traitor who
may or may not turn against them. Yet Evangeline had touched him. He could almost see her as a little
girl running through the courtyard outside the academy, a wild and happy child. It was impossible for
him to imagine then that, one day, he might not be able to save her.
IV
Verlaine had waited long enough; he couldn’t listen to any more talking. Bruno had his method—he
would gather information, divide the hunt, and move out with a deliberate plan of attack—but
Verlaine couldn’t follow him now. Evangeline was here, somewhere, and there was nothing on earth
that would keep him from finding her. Tagging along behind Bruno wasn’t going to happen. His time
for simply taking orders was over. He was going after Evangeline alone.
He slipped on the security guard’s jacket, left Dmitri’s office, and began walking the pathway
alongside the cells, searching for Evangeline. The lower levels were filled to capacity with ragged,
emaciated creatures. Never had he been so close to so many varieties of angelic beings. It was as
though he had stepped into a museum packed with specimens.
Verlaine stopped and gripped the metal railing as he looked over the vast prison, the observation
tower rising at the center. Suddenly the screens shifted and slats of light sliced across the walls of the
panopticon. Verlaine saw the enormous sweep of the space, the chambers stretching away in a path of
diminishing visibility. He turned once more to the honeycomb of cells, each one filled with an angel,
many with unfurled wings. The cells were deep but narrow, leaving no room for full expansion of the
wings, and, as a result, the creatures had pressed their wings against the glass until they curled with
pressure, so that the details of feathers were imprinted upon the panes. Angelologists sat behind the
glass of the observatory tower studying the creatures’ movements, their manner clinical. Suddenly the
panels turned opaque, obscuring the observers behind a shield of smoky glass. It gave Verlaine the
creeps to think that they were there, behind the glass, watching him. He didn’t want to be part of their
experiment.
Heading up a set of metal steps, he climbed to the top level. If they had Evangeline in custody, she
would probably be there, among the Nephilim. The lights were dim, enhancing the effect of the neon
bulbs in the creatures’ cells. As he walked along the cells, he glanced inside. The prisoners were
large, powerful Nephilim who scowled and hissed as he went by, thrashing their wings, spitting, and
cursing at him. One of the creatures scratched at the glass, leaving streaks of blue blood behind. The
conditions were horrendous and must have ensured that a steady number of the creatures died each
year, perhaps making way for new ones. Over the years he’d lost all ability to feel empathy for the
Nephilim, and yet, when he looked at the tortured state of the prisoners, he wondered if the Russian
angelologists weren’t being too harsh in their methods.
The sound of footsteps broke his thoughts. Looking into the reflective glass of the window, he saw
that a security guard was walking in his direction. He glanced over his shoulder and saw another
guard, on the opposite side of the panopticon, staring at him. He turned up the collar of his jacket and
walked away, realizing that the curve of the complex offered no escape. It was clear that if they
caught him, he wasn’t going to be able to fool anyone with his disguise. He didn’t speak Russian, his
face didn’t match the security badge pinned to his pocket, and he was wearing street shoes and jeans.
He was an angelologist, and could prove his identity, but they would still take him into custody for
questioning until someone in Paris came to the rescue. If these guards stopped him, it was all over.
The guard behind Verlaine called something to him in Russian. Verlaine walked faster, scanning
the cells, as if the glass doors might magically open and reveal an escape route. The guard began to
run—Verlaine heard the heavy clomping of shoes on the cement—and the second guard, taking his
cue, came at Verlaine from the other direction. Looking ahead and behind, he saw that there was