Authors: Danielle Trussoni
Vera paused, considering how to best present the theory she had wagered her career on. “I am proposing,” she said, with as much authority as she could muster, “that Monsieur Philippe prophesied that Alexandra would become pregnant with a son because he, like John Dee before him, and Rasputin after him, had learned how to communicate with angels.”
The others stared at her, unsure of what to make of such a theory.
“That would explain,” Sveti said tentatively, “the Enochian language written on every page of the journal. But what does that have to do with Alexandra’s phantom pregnancy—egg or no egg, I don’t see how there’s a connection.”
“If Monsieur Philippe was able to summon the Archangel Gabriel, it has everything to do with it,” Vera said. “Consider this: The Watchers were not the only angels who consorted with human women. I believe that the Annunciation of Gabriel should more accurately be called the Consummation of Gabriel, that Mary’s famous union with Gabriel was neither the first not the last instance of human intercourse with a member of the Heavenly Host.”
“You can’t be serious,” Sveti said.
“She’s serious,” Azov whispered. “Hear her out.”
“For the past years, I have been documenting historical representations of angelology and the virgin birth—and Luke’s narration of the annunciation in particular—to discover if there is any truth to theories that Jesus could have been the result of a sexual encounter between the virgin and the Archangel Gabriel. Mind you, this isn’t an entirely new idea. The controversy surrounding the annunciation was once a debate that occupied theoretical angelologists for centuries. One camp believed the birth of Jesus to be accurately depicted by Luke: Jesus was the product of the Holy Spirit descending upon Mary, God’s son, a scenario that placed Gabriel in the position of messenger, the traditional role of the angels in Scripture. The other camp believed that Mary had been seduced by Gabriel, who had also seduced her cousin Elizabeth before her, and that the children both women conceived—John the Baptist and Jesus—were the first in a lineage of what would have become a race of superior creatures: moral, divine angels whose presence would have been a tonic to the evil of the Nephilim. Of course, neither John the Baptist nor Jesus had children. Their lines died with them.”
“So you’re suggesting that John the Baptist and Jesus Christ and Lucien Romanov share the same father?” Azov asked.
“I’m suggesting that exactly,” Vera said.
“There are people in these parts who would burn us at the stake for making such claims,” Sveti said.
“Then I shudder to imagine what they would do upon hearing the next conclusion we must draw,” Vera said. “With his archangelic father, Gabriel, and his Nephilistic mother, Alexandra, Lucien is descended from the exalted and the damned.”
“A true Manichaean,” Sveti said.
“Throw Percival Grigori—Evangeline’s other grandfather—into the mix, and you have a truly unholy cocktail,” Vera said.
“Enough,” Valko said, his voice steely. “You’re speaking about my daughter’s work, all that she lived and died for. I won’t let you trifle with her legacy.”
“Evangeline was her work?” Vera asked, incredulous to hear Valko speak of Evangeline so coldly, as if she were little more than a thought experiment.
“The conception of Evangeline was the most brilliant and dangerous risk of Angela’s career,” Valko said. “Angela knew what she was doing and did it with purpose.” He folded his arms over his chest and looked at them, his features hardening. “The child was not some foolhardy whim. My daughter put her own body on the line, as well as her safety, to produce Evangeline.”
“But you said before that Angela and Lucien were in love,” Azov said.
“That was an unexpected consequence.”
“What did she expect to happen?” Vera asked, realizing with horror that Angela was more calculating than she could have ever imagined. “Do you mean to say that she was fully aware of what she was doing? What did she expect Evangeline to become?”
“The ultimate weapon,” Valko said. “A weapon that derived from the natural hierarchy of angelic beings. There are the spheres of heavenly creatures—the archangels, seraphim, cherubim—and then there are the spheres of devils, fallen angels, the creatures disowned by heaven, demons. Angela knew these distinctions intimately. She knew the power of an angel must be measured against the power of another angel. She knew that false creation—the genetic modeling of automatons, golems, clones, or any such engineered animate being—would not work, as it went against the divine hierarchy of beings. Angela also knew that in order to defeat a creature of human and angelic origin—a monster of the heavenly order—she must create another, more powerful creature. And so she attempted to engineer a new species of angel, one that was stronger than the Nephilim.”
Azov’s voice strained as he said, “You make it sound like Angela was some kind of Frankenstein constructing a monster.”
“My daughter did something even more bold,” Valko said, and Vera could not tell if he was proud of or ashamed by his daughter’s work.
“Are you really saying,” Azov said, “that Angela created a child to be used a weapon?”
“‘Weapon’ is perhaps not the ideal way to classify the girl,” Valko said. “Examine her name. It contains the seeds of her destiny. She was called Evangeline. Eve Angel. The child was to be the new Eve, an original creature born to reconstruct a new world.”
“Semantics aside, it is difficult to believe that Angela used her own child as a kind of genetic experiment,” Azov said, his voice filled with doubt.
“In the end, it didn’t matter,” Valko said. “The experiment failed.”
“Because Evangeline turned out to be human?” Vera asked.
“A female human with ruddy, opaque skin, crimson blood, a propensity toward illness, a navel, and a startling resemblance to her human grandmother, Gabriella.” Valko looked away and his voice grew quiet as he said, “And so Angela tried again.”
“What?” Vera said and, realizing that she was nearly screaming, changed her tone. “I don’t understand. A lot of time passed before Angela could know that Evangeline wasn’t the creature she wanted to create. How on earth did she try again?”
“Angela went back to St. Petersburg in 1983 and renewed her relationship with the angel who had fathered Evangeline. She never told Lucien of Evangeline’s existence, nor did she reveal her reasons for renewing the affair. I don’t think Angela had any notion that she was being heartless or even irresponsible. She did it all with the belief that her second child would be a boy and that he would be the warrior angel she had been waiting for. With the birth of her son, her work against the Nephilim would be finished.”
“And did she succeed?” Vera asked.
Valko said quietly, “My daughter was pregnant when she was killed. During the autopsy it was discovered that an egg had formed in Angela’s womb. The child was a boy. I saw his corpse. His skin was golden and he had the white wings of an archangel. Angela’s second child would have been a warrior. He would have brought peace and tranquility to our world. But this savior child died with her.”
“What became of the angel?” Vera asked.
“After Angela’s death, I knew that I needed to find Lucien,” Valko said. “And after searching for many months, I found him imprisoned in Siberia.”
“They must have taken him to the panopticon,” Vera said. Rumors about the existence of a great Siberian prison were forever circulating among Russian angelologists. It was just the kind of detention center to be found in the wilderness—old-fashioned, aesthetically complex, flawlessly designed, and impenetrable. But no one had ever verified if the panopticon actually existed.
“The very one,” Valko said. “The same day Angela was murdered, Lucien was taken into captivity by the Russian hunters and transported by train to Siberia.”
“They wanted to study him?” Vera asked.
“Clearly,” Valko said. “With such a magnificent creature there would be much to examine and explore. The biological breakdown of an archangel’s son could occupy researchers for years.”
“But the society was founded to fight the Nephilim,” Sveti said. “How could someone get away with the imprisonment of a creature proven to derive from an altogether different, truly divine angelic form?”
“I’m not sure the guards would have known the difference,” Valko said. “And besides, that prison conducts its business outside of the confines of our conventions.”
As if by a sudden impulse, Valko gestured for them to follow him back outside into the garden, where a table had been set with a breakfast of Valko’s antediluvian fruit—orange strawberries and blue apples and green oranges. Vera shivered, feeling the crisp mountain air on her arms as she made her way to the table.
“Sit a moment,” Valko said, pulling a chair out for Vera. “We’ll have something to eat while we finish our conversation.”
Vera sat alongside the others, watching as they chose fruit from a platter. Vera took a strawberry, picked up her knife and fork, and cut it in half. A thick orange juice seeped from the center. Valko opened a thermos and poured coffee into their mugs.
Valko continued where he had left off. “The panopticon prison is funded beyond anything you and I could dream of. As a result, it is extremely well equipped and secure. The scientists there are using captive angelic creatures as experimental subjects. They are taking blood and DNA samples; they are taking biopsies, bone samples, MRI scans; they are even operating on the creatures. They are very powerful and, as they say about absolute power, well . . .” Valko paused to cut a fruit that seemed a cross between a kiwi and a pear, “the aphorism is a perfect expression of the chief technician there—a British scientist named Merlin Godwin.”
Vera nearly choked on her coffee. Hearing the name Merlin Godwin now, uttered in this Edenic garden, was so jarring that she could hardly swallow. She glanced at her watch. Almost twenty-four hours had passed since she had seen Angela’s interrogation projected on a cellar wall of the Winter Palace. Finally, she found her voice. “Merlin Godwin is a traitor.”
“Godwin has been in the Grigoris’ pocket since the beginning,” Valko conceded.
“Why has he been permitted to continue his work, then?” Azov asked. “Sveti and I are struggling to keep our projects going, and this criminal is set up with unlimited funding and equipment.”
“The academy believes that the work he’s doing is of benefit to them,” Valko said. “Keeping him in Siberia is a form of containment: He is a permanent resident of the panopticon. He has absolutely no contact with the world outside.”
“He’s a prisoner himself,” Vera said.
“As director and chief scientist of the facility, I would hardly call him that,” Valko said. “He has ultimate control of the facility. But his power lies only within the walls of the prison. His work with the Grigoris is something he has managed to maintain, apparently, although I have no idea how.”
“Or why,” Sveti added. “How could they allow him to continue his work? I can’t imagine the Grigoris using their own kind as experimental subjects.”
“I have my own theories about that,” Valko said, winking at Vera. “I suspect that they are attempting to develop a new genetic pool as a way to renew themselves. What they may not realize is that their efforts are hopeless without a creature who can give them the biological blueprint they need.”
“Hence Lucien,” Azov added.
“I took care of Lucien,” Valko said, and Vera could hear the pride of a man who had spent a lifetime outsmarting the creatures. “I got him out of Siberia before they did any real harm to him.”
“He’s here?” Vera asked.
“All in due time, my dear,” Valko said. “You came to me for answers and I will try to provide some.” Valko leaned back in his chair, his coffee steaming in his hand. “As you know, the field of angelic genetics was founded by my daughter. What you may not know is that her work was closely monitored by her enemies. They hoped to use genetic engineering to create angels.”
“But I thought you said Angela didn’t believe cloning could work?” Azov said.
“She didn’t think it would be viable,” Valko said. “And her reasoning came from the most basic aspects of genetic inheritance—the nature of mitochondrial DNA and nuclear DNA.”
“Ah, the pillars of ancestry societies everywhere,” Azov said. “We’ve had a number of religious scholars at St. Ivan asking to exhume the remains of John the Baptist, hoping to run such DNA testing.”
“And of course you tell them why that would not be prudent,” Valko said.
“I tell them that it’s the mitochondrial DNA of the female members of a family that acts as a time capsule: A girl’s mitochondrial DNA is a replica of her mother’s, grandmother’s, great-grandmother’s, and so on. So John the Baptist, being a man—a man who may have descended from the Archangel Gabriel, I would now add—wouldn’t deliver the goods.”
“Angela discovered that the same is true for female Nephilim,” Valko said. “There is an exact replica of the maternal line in every female born, creating an enormous possibility to examine ancient DNA structures of female creatures.”
“But the Nephilim are descended from angels and women,” Vera said. “The mitochondrial DNA would, thus, lead back to humanity, not to angels.”
“Correct,” Valko said. “That was why Godwin ultimately found Lucien unusable. He was descended from an angel, sure enough, and was very, very pure. But with an angelic father and a very pure Nephilistic mother, Lucien’s genes were impossible for Godwin to sequence with the technology available in the 1980s. His mitochondrial DNA was a direct match to Alexandra Romanov’s. His nuclear DNA was a hodgepodge of his parents’ combined genes—human, Nephil, and an unidentifiable strain that Godwin couldn’t pinpoint and therefore deemed worthless to him and his project.”
“And Lucien?” Vera asked again. She couldn’t help but think of how alluring it would be to be able to see the creature, to touch it, to feel the heat of its skin.
“When I finally found Lucien in 1986, Godwin had him in their prison in Siberia. The terrible conditions didn’t seem to affect him—he is a transcendental being, quite literally, and the realities of the material world cannot touch him. Even so, I knew that I needed to get him out of there, and so I convinced Godwin that I had the one thing on earth more precious than Lucien—an ingredient in the elusive medicine of Noah.”