Authors: Danielle Trussoni
“Interrogation of Nephil male, 1984, Montparnasse, Paris.”
Angela glanced at Luca, as if to check that he was filming the exchange, and then turned her attention back to the angel. “The creature was captured on the rue de Rivoli at approximately 1:30
A.M.,
and injected with ketamine en route to our facilites in Montparnasse. Preliminary observations suggest the creature to be between two hundred and three hundred years old, with the characteristics of all Nephilim. Initial attempts to interview the subject were fruitless. He remains unresponsive.”
Angela looked at the angel, and Luca followed with the camera. The creature stared at his interrogator through narrowed eyes. His face was flushed with anger, and his breathing—whether from the cinch of the ropes or the strain of fury—came in labored bursts. Veins snaked over his skin, as if they might explode with the pressure of his blood.
Angela looked at him with a cold, clinical eye and said, “Are you ready to begin?”
The creature’s nostrils flared. He displayed a level of belligerence consistent with Nephilim of his rank and heritage. Verlaine recognized the insouciant, indignant anger of the fallen angel. Although he had not read Milton for years, he couldn’t help but think of Lucifer—the brightest star of heaven—falling to the depths of the earth, undone by beauty and pride.
“Speak, beast,” Vladimir said, stepping behind the angel and tightening the ropes.
The creature closed his eyes and said, “If words were shields, my voice would rally to my defense.” His words seemed to float upon his light, buoyant voice, its tone taken from the pure registers of the angels.
“Riddles will get you nowhere,” Vladimir said.
“Then I will remain stationary for the time being,” the creature said.
Vladimir assessed the angel and, with a swift movement, slapped him across the face. A stream of blue blood slid over his lips and chin and dripped onto his chest. He smiled a vicious, devilish smile, one filled with arrogance. “Do you really believe pain is an effective method? I have lived through things you cannot begin to imagine.”
Angela stood, placed the notebook and pen on the chair, crossed her arms over her chest, and said to Luca, “Perhaps he’ll be more cooperative if I speak to him by myself.”
The camera moved abruptly, and Luca—setting the device onto a table, leaving Angela and the angel in view—stepped into the frame. “There is no way I’m leaving you alone with this thing,” he said.
Angela placed her hand on his arm, as if to assuage his worries. “He can’t do much under the circumstances. I know he has information we can use, if we can get him to talk. If you hear anything alarming, come back in.” Angela glanced at the creature, who had closed his eyes, as if waiting for the ordeal to end. A look of determination passed over her features, and Verlaine knew that she was testing herself against the creature, marking her strength and intelligence against it, placing her bets on her ability to defeat it. He recognized the feeling. It was exactly this that kept him hunting.
“Go on, Luca,” Angela said, opening the door. “I’ll alert you if there’s a problem.”
The film went black and then, in a sputter of light and movement, resumed. The bright, industrial overhead bulb had been dimmed, and a single desk light glowed in a corner, casting a blue shadow over the creature. Angela Valko sat in a metal chair across from the angel. They were alone.
“Identify yourself, please,” Angela said.
“Percival Grigori III,” the creature said. “Son of Sneja and Percival Grigori II.”
Verlaine looked more closely at the creature, trying to understand how this could be the person he had met in New York. The Percival Grigori he had known was twisted and ill, his skin transparent, his eyes a watery, weak blue. The angel in the film was beautiful, his skin glowing with health, his golden hair glossy, his expression one of superiority and defiance. In fact, there was a staggering resemblance between the angelologist and the angel. It was obvious to anyone who saw them together that they were related by blood. And yet, Angela never knew the true identity of her father. Neither one of them could guess what time would bring. Frozen in 1984, they were forever suspended in their innocence.
“Percival,” Angela said, her manner softer, as if she were playing a new role, that of a woman charming a quarrelsome companion. “Can I get you a drink?”
“How kind,” Percival said. “Vodka. Straight.”
Angela stood and walked offscreen. Verlaine heard the clinking of glass. Soon she returned with a cut-crystal tumbler.
Percival looked from the glass to his hands, which were bound by rope. “If you please.”
As Angela hesitated and then untied the ropes, Verlaine wanted to jump into the film and to stop her, to warn her against Percival, to pull her away. He felt his heart sink at what lay ahead. Angela Valko was falling into a trap.
When the ropes fell from Percival’s wrists, Angela gave him the tumbler of vodka and returned to her seat. “Now it’s time to answer my questions.”
Percival took a sip, swallowed, and said, “Perhaps. But first I have a question of my own: Why does such a lovely young woman spend so much time in this dungeon of a laboratory? I can’t imagine it offers much pleasure.”
“My work has its own rewards,” Angela said. “One of which is capturing and studying creatures like you. You would make a fine specimen for my students.”
Percival smiled, his expression cruel. “It is very fortunate that I am not as brutal as my grandfather. He would have killed you within the first five minutes of meeting you. He would tear you apart and leave you here to bleed. I wouldn’t dream of killing you in such a messy fashion.”
“That’s reassuring,” Angela said, a hand disappearing in the folds of her white lab coat. She removed a pistol and aimed it at Percival’s chest. “Because I have no such scruples.”
Percival drank the vodka, turned the glass in his hand as if pondering what to do, and then, with an explosive movement, threw the tumbler at Angela. It smashed against a wall, the crystal shattering offscreen, creating chords of dissonance. “Untie me,” he said.
Angela leaned back in her chair, a smile on her face. “Come now, I can’t let you go. I’ve only just got you talking.” She raised the gun, slowly, as if considering its weight in her hand, and shot. The bullet missed, yet Percival cried out in surprise and anger. “I have a reason for bringing you here. I don’t expect to let you leave until I have answers.”
“About what?”
“Merlin Godwin.”
“I have no idea who you’re talking about.”
“I have proof that he’s been in communication with you,” Angela said. “What you need to do now is to give me the details.”
“You are mistaken if you think that you pose a threat to us. Indeed, your work has helped us enormously.”
“What has Godwin given you?” Angela said, her voice carefully calibrated. “I want to know everything: the experiments, the subjects, the purpose. I am especially interested to know how Merlin Godwin has gained access to my work.”
Percival took a deep breath, as if considering his options. “The project is but in its beginning phases.”
Although Angela maintained a clinician’s equilibrium, Verlaine could see that Percival had taken her by surprise, that she had not expected his capitulation at all. He was going to cooperate. Getting what she wanted had thrown her off balance.
“Technically, we are advancing with great rapidity.” Percival’s complexion changed as he spoke, his white skin turning even paler, as if he’d drifted away from Angela and fallen into an argument he’d long been fighting inside his mind.
“Merlin Godwin has made trips across the Iron Curtain in recent months,” Angela said. “Is this related in some way to your project?”
“It wasn’t my first choice to build in the old world, but, of course, we mustn’t forget the Watchers.”
“Are you mining Valkine?”
“‘Mining’ is not how I would describe it,” Percival said. “It is more like extracting dust from a hurricane. The quantities are minuscule and the conditions are wretched. And yet we need the material. It is the only way.”
“The way to what?”
“Perfection,” Percival said, flatly. His blue eyes seemed to sharpen as he spoke.
“Perfection is a concept,” Angela said. “It is not something one can construct.”
“Purity is perhaps the better word. We are recovering the purity we lost four thousand years ago. We will take back what was destroyed in the Deluge, the purity of our race that was compromised by generations of breeding with humanity, and re-create the original breed of Nephilim.”
“You want to re-create paradise,” Angela said, astonished.
Percival smiled and shook his head. “The Garden of Eden was created for human beings,” he said. “The Angelopolis is for angels, pure creatures, the likes of which haven’t been seen on earth since Creation.”
“But that is impossible,” Angela said. “The Nephilim were never pure. You were born of angels and women. You were mixed at your origin.”
Percival said, “Look at me closely—at my transparent skin, my wings—and tell me what is and what is not possible. My family is the last of the exceptionally pure Nephilim. If my existence is possible, anything is possible. But what we can make in the future, now that is even more incredible.”
Angela stood and paced the room, her shadow falling over the angel. “You are engineering an alternate world for yourselves, one that will be wholly constructed for Nephilim.”
“It would be more correct to say that we have made a petri dish, and from this small biological culture we will grow a new world, one that will replace what you call human civilization.”
As Angela Valko considered this, Verlaine imagined the obvious questions forming in her mind:
Why would the Nephilim do this now, after thousands of years of coexistence with human beings? What is their motivation? How could they achieve something so drastic? And what would they do with human beings?
“This isn’t a new endeavor,” Percival said, reading Angela’s thoughts. “We’ve been looking for a way forward for many, many years. The twentieth century has provided many pieces to the puzzle: War allowed us to test our formulas on human subjects; science has allowed us to look inside the mechanisms of our creation; technology has allowed us to collect and compare data.” Percival folded his hands in his lap. “And we’ve found an ally.”
“Dr. Merlin Godwin,” Angela said. “You’ve found an angelologist to spy and steal for you.”
“We’ve found a man who appreciates the dilemma of our race,” Percival said.
“Nephilistic diminishment,” Angela said. “Nephilim fertility has dwindled, immunity to human diseases has weakened, and wingspan has shortened, as has life expectancy. Of course I’m fully aware of this phenomenon. I have been studying the possible causes for the past few years.”
Percival said, “Your theory on the genetics of angelic creatures has been extraordinarily helpful. In fact, Dr. Valko, it is because of your work that we will be able to rebuild our race.”
“My work has nothing to do with genetic engineering.”
Percival smiled again, and the frightening hunch that Verlaine had sensed earlier—that the creature could manipulate Angela as he wished—returned. “I know your theories very well, Dr. Valko. You have spent your career deciphering Nephilistic DNA. You’ve speculated about the role of Valkine in the production of angelic proteins. You’ve explored the mysteries of angelic and human hybrids. You’ve even found and captured me, no small feat. Your work has uncovered the codes, the secrets of production, all the answers to the questions you have. And still you don’t see.”
A tremor in Angela’s lip was all that revealed her growing irritation. “I think you may be surprised by our capabilities,” Angela said, the faintest hint of insecurity passing over her features. She stood, went to a cabinet, and removed an oblong object. “This, I believe, might be familiar to you.”
Verlaine recognized it instantly: It was an elaborately jeweled enamel egg. Although similar to the one in his pocket, its design was distinctly different. The exterior was sprinkled with brilliant blue sapphires.
“That,” Vera said, her eyes trained upon the egg, “is another of the missing eggs.”
As Verlaine followed Angela’s movements, he realized that his entire body had gone rigid.
Angela sat down, turning the egg in her hands, the gems glittering. To Verlaine’s great surprise, even Percival watched with fascination.
“I thought you might recognize it,” Angela said. She opened the egg. Inside there was a golden hen with eyes of rose-cut diamonds. Angela pushed the beak and the bird split apart, revealing a series of glass vials.
While Percival Grigori’s expression transformed from surprise to bafflement, and then to rage, his voice remained calm. “How?”
Angela smiled, triumphant. “Just as you have watched us, we have been watching you. We know that Godwin has been collecting samples of blood.” Angela lifted one after the other and read the labels. “A
LEXEI,
L
UCIEN,
E
VANGELINE
.”
Were it not for the undertone of anguish in Angela’s voice when she spoke her daughter’s name, Verlaine would have doubted what he’d heard.
If Evangeline had been marked by the Nephilim from childhood, what would they do with her now that they had her in their possession?
Angela returned the vials to the egg and closed it. “What I want to understand is why, exactly, you have these samples.”
“If you want to understand,” Percival said, “you will join us. There is a place for your work at the Angelopolis.”
“I don’t think that will be possible,” she said, removing a small syringe from her pocket. “I have some ideas of my own about purification.”
Percival narrowed his eyes as he examined the needle in her hand. “What is it?”
“A suspension that holds a virus. It affects creatures with wings—birds and Nephilim are particularly vulnerable. I created it in my laboratory by employing mutations of known viral strains. It is a simple virus, something like the flu. It would give human beings a headache and a fever, but nothing more serious than that. If it is released into the Nephilim population, however, it will cause mass extinction unlike anything you’ve seen since the Flood.” Angela lifted the syringe to the light, revealing a green liquid. She shook it slightly, as if swirling wine in a glass. “A biological weapon, some might call it. But I think of it as a way to level the field.”