Angelopolis(99)

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