Angelopolis (15 page)

“Do you think Azov would be interested in looking into this?” Bruno asked, realizing even as he spoke that Vera was two steps ahead of him.

“Of course,” Vera said. “Despite the distance, Azov has been a close contact for the past few years. He’s advised me in every aspect of my research. I’m sure I could arrange to see him immediately.” She looked at her watch. “It’s nearly lunchtime. If I start now, I could probably be there tonight.”

“You will report back the second you learn anything,” Bruno said.

“Of course,” Vera said, kissing each of them good-bye. She extricated herself from the situation so gracefully that Bruno had to admire her. If only he could get out of there with such skill.

Taking the album in hand, she looked to Nadia. “I’m sure that you don’t want to let this out of your sight, but Azov can’t help us unless he sees it.”

“You will take it then,” Nadia said, hesitant. “But you must be extremely careful. This album has been hidden for many years. If the Grigori know you have it, they will want it. And I believe you understand what they will do to get what they want.”

Vera looked momentarily concerned and then, finding a plastic bag in the corner, she slipped the album inside and walked into the labyrinth of Nadia’s home. Within seconds Bruno saw her through the dusty glass, hurrying along the street, her blond hair filled with midday sunlight.

The corner of Mokhovaya Street, St. Petersburg

T
he blow struck Verlaine before he’d fully stepped out into the street. The world seemed to waver and tip; he hit the cobblestones hard and rolled as the sharp wooden sole of a shoe sliced into his hand. A warm, wet substance dripped over his forehead and into his eye. He blinked, trying to clear his sight. He was blinded by blood.

In the seconds he lay on the cobblestones, he put together the facts of the ambush: The car they’d spotted at the Neva must have followed them. The creatures had waited outside the antique store, preparing to attack the moment he and Bruno stepped out of Nadia’s door. It had been planned and executed perfectly.

Wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket, he saw that there was not one but two Nephilim. As he moved his gaze from one to the other, he realized that they were identical in every aspect, from their lush blond curls to their Italian leather shoes. The twins seemed eerily familiar to him. He recognized their build, their features, even the way they dressed. And yet it was impossible that he’d seen them in Paris. Nephilim rarely did their own dirty work.

He jumped to his feet and kicked at the closest twin, aiming for the solar plexus. He felt his shoe connect, but it had no effect. His target—it must be a Grigori, he realized; there was no other family that looked quite like them—simply smiled, as if Verlaine were nothing more threatening than an insect. Bruno fought, taking on the second Nephil, but it pinned him to the ground. Verlaine patted his jacket, feeling for the egg. For the moment, it was safe.

Then, quick as a flicker of light in the corner of his eye, he saw Eno. She stepped from the shadows, her skin translucent in the early afternoon light. Her wings were hidden under a sable cape, but he knew that if she were to open them, they would span the width of the street.

Time seemed to stop as Eno walked coolly to Verlaine and kicked him in the stomach. He tried to stand, but she pushed him back to the ground and, feeling his pockets, took his gun, which she looked at with disdain and threw aside. She paused and felt his jacket a second time. Verlaine knew even before she removed it that she’d found the egg. He struggled to grab it from her fingers, but the other two creatures held him down. Bruno jumped up, gun in his hand, and fired at Eno, who turned on her heel and ran. The twins climbed back into a car and drove off, disappearing as quickly as they’d attacked.

“Come on,” Bruno said, brushing himself off. “We’ll follow them.”

“We’ll be more efficient if we split up,” Verlaine said, spying Eno in the distance.

Bruno eyed him, wary. “Think you can handle her?”

“We’ll soon find out.” A moment of doubt came over Verlaine. Bruno had warned him that taking her on alone was suicide. Yet she was the kind of creature every angelologist dreamed of hunting. She would either be the biggest catch of his life, or she would kill him.

“Okay, move,” Bruno said. “Stay on her. She’ll know you’re following, but it doesn’t matter. The important thing is to put the pressure on. I’ll go after the car. They’re sure to meet up with Eno at some point.”

Verlaine picked up his gun, tucked it into his pocket, and ran, knowing he had to catch her, corner her, stun her, and restrain her, skills Bruno had drilled into him year after year. Verlaine had done it time and time again, first on the Golobium, working his way up to the Gibborim, and then, finally, to the Nephilim. He had learned to match the pace of the creature, choose the precise moment to reveal his presence, and then, when he had maneuvered it into position, capture it. And yet he had never tasted the sweetness of a creature like Eno.

She turned onto Nevsky Prospect, a wide thoroughfare lined with boutiques and galleries, and ducked into a shop, its polished window filled with leather luggage, scarves, and handbags. Pausing outside the door, he wondered if he should go in after her or wait. Neither choice presented itself as a good option. She knew he was following her. If he went inside, she’d run. If he stood outside, she might find a way to escape through another exit. Verlaine leaned on the glass and squinted. Beautiful, well-dressed women filled the shop. Eno stood at a glass display filled with wallets and accessories. She dialed a number and brought her phone to her ear, all the while examining the pattern of a silk scarf—a white foulard with black flecks that matched, as she tied it around her neck, her white beret, and black cape. After a few minutes she turned off the phone, slid it into her bag, paid for the scarf, and walked back out onto the street. Verlaine hid and watched her walk away.

If Eno had detected Verlaine, she didn’t alter her behavior in the least. She stepped off Nevsky Prospect, toward the Neva, her pace quickening. Verlaine increased his speed, his determination to catch her growing stronger each second. Her stiletto heels made her seem enormous among the human beings around her. He walked faster and faster, until finally he broke into a run, the cool wind blowing through his hair. It was not a question of whether he could catch her—he was determined to apprehend her no matter what it took. Rather it was a question of how far she would go to evade him. If he knew anything at all about the Emim, he knew that Eno would keep going.

Even as he followed her, something in him pulled back. He saw himself at a remove, as if he were outside of the scene, looking on his movements from high above the city: a man in a bloodstained yellow sport coat pushing his way along the crowded bridge over the river, dodging traffic as he crossed the street at the Hermitage.

Verlaine glanced at the great block of the Winter Palace rising before him once again. The buildings seemed even more massive in the afternoon sunlight than they had when he’d arrived before dawn. It seemed like a lifetime ago when he’d held out the egg, unaware that it was more than an ornate bauble.

When Eno turned down a tree-lined side street, Verlaine saw his opening. Although the labyrinthine ancient quarter behind the Winter Palace wasn’t as sheltered as he would have liked—not a dark alley or an enclosed courtyard or a deserted tunnel in a subway station—it would have to do. He didn’t have much time to make his move. If he was going to get her, it had to be now.

As if sensing his intention, Eno increased her pace. He matched her gait, gaining on her from behind, his entire body tingling with anticipation. After all of the years of tracking angels, he still found the hunt exhilarating and terrifying. Eno’s effect upon him—the mixture of fear and disbelief that left him jittery and anxious—was similar to what he’d felt the first time he had chased a creature, years before. He moved closer and closer, until he was dangerously, recklessly near her, so close that he could smell her thick scent—a musky smell that marked her kind. He’d first heard the scent described as ambroisal—it is in some of the earliest recorded descriptions of the creatures—but to Verlaine it was a rotten odor, like a decaying animal, an odor that distinguished the lesser breeds from the more refined scent of the Nephilim. He felt the air chill between them and he grew tense, overwhelmed by the proximity. Her pale skin glowed; her features were sharp, aquiline. When she looked over her shoulder, he saw that her eyes were amber, more golden than anything in the natural world. The very traits that painters had used to represent angels from the Renaissance onward were imprinted upon her face: She had wide symmetric eyes, a broad forehead, and high cheekbones, the characteristics that had come to be the hallmark of angelic beauty. It was no mystery why angel hunters kept chasing her. Eno was ravishing.

As they rounded a corner, Eno stopped and faced Verlaine. Her golden eyes rested on his, challenging him to come closer. A delicate white membrane had fallen over her eyes, creating a milky sheath, like the eyes of a reptile. She blinked and the film retracted. For a terrifying moment he felt that she would kiss him. A shiver of electricity passed through him, a kind of recognition that Verlaine didn’t want to admit feeling, but the truth of it hit him squarely in the chest: Eno was one of the most frightening, most seductive creatures he’d ever seen.

He needed to hit her just hard enough to stun her, so he could get a cuff around her neck. He touched his back pocket, making sure the device was where he always kept it—it was so thin and flexible that it rolled up to the size of a coin—and then grabbed her by the arm, pulling her back hard and kicking her feet out from under her. She landed on the sidewalk, hitting the pavement, her bag falling at her side. Verlaine grabbed it, threw it from her reach, and dug his knee into her chest, pinning her to the concrete. He’d knocked the breath out of her—he could hear her gasp as she struggled to breathe. Verlaine held her wrists together with one hand and grabbed the collar from his back pocket with the other. But as he pressed the metal to her neck, she pushed him away with such ease, twisted from under him and jumped to her feet, a smile changing her icy features to the radiant beauty of a Botticelli. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

Verlaine lunged, landing a blow to her stomach. She countered by dragging her fingernails across his face, then swept his legs out from under him. In a blur of movement, he hit the sidewalk. He heard the sharp sound of Eno’s boots tapping against the cobblestones as she fled.

He jumped up and started after her. She was fast, but Verlaine kept pace with her until she opened her wings. They glistened, vibrating with energy. She lifted off the ground and flew through the streets, gaining speed with each passing second.

Verlaine looked around for something that might help him catch her. There was a rusty Zid motorcycle parked nearby, its wires hanging loose. The engine was vastly different from his Ducati, but in a matter of seconds, he’d hot-wired the bike, thrown his leg over the leather seat, and was speeding after Eno. He held tight to the bars as he swerved through streets and turned back onto the wide boulevard. He tried to get his bearings. He was driving west, toward the Neva. A minaret rose against the purple sky.

A dull, throbbing pain seeped through his skull. The cut had scabbed over and, when he turned his head, he felt it break open. Warm, fresh blood seeped across his skin.

Suddenly, Verlaine saw Bruno up ahead in the backseat of a taxi. He was follwing the twins, trailing their sedan, gaining momentum by the second. Verlaine could see that he was close enough to assist Bruno and, with the right balance of velocity and control, could cut the twins off. Glancing up, he saw Eno, her black wings stretched against the sky. She was guarding the twins from above. If Verlaine went after the taxi, it would draw her down so that he could fight her.

A rumbling caught Verlaine’s attention. He turned and found a pack of black MV Agusta motorcycles behind him, moving in formation. Bruno leaned out of the the taxi’s window, gave a quick wave of his hand, and the Agustas swarmed the twins’ sedan, their motors buzzing as they swerved in and out of its path.

The sedan spun around, screeching to a halt, and Bruno’s taxi followed. Verlaine pulled over and dropped the motorcycle.

“Nice timing,” Bruno said, looking Verlaine over and giving a low whistle. Verlaine must have looked as bad as he felt. He’d be black and blue, no doubt, with his head stitched together like a football. As he stepped toward Bruno, he realized that the bump to his head was making him unsure on his feet.

The pack of Russian angelologists dismounted their motorcycles and flanked Bruno and Verlaine. He’d never met their colleagues in Russia, but he’d heard about them often, mostly in jokes about their use of heavy gear. They wore black gloves with steel knuckles embedded in the leather and black steel helmets with angel wings painted in silver on the sides. He counted nine Russian angel hunters, giving them a total of eleven angelologists. Under normal circumstances the numbers would have been more than sufficient. But it was clear after his encounter with Eno that this wasn’t an average hunt, and Eno and the twins weren’t average targets.

Just when Verlaine was beginning to feel confident that they could handle the situation, a new creature jumped from the twins’ sedan. It was one of the Raiphim, an angelic order indigenous to Russia. From the lexicon of angels Verlaine owned, he knew that the Raiphim were phoenixlike monsters who rose again and again from the dead. They were known as “the dead ones” for their pale pink eyes and their ability to return to their bodies after death. He had never seen one up close. He found them ghoulish, their pallor that of bloodless flesh.

Verlaine blinked as the passenger side door opened and a second Raiphim emerged. One of the Russian hunters ran at the first creature, aimed, and kicked, trying for the chest. A second hunter stunned it from behind. The beast collapsed onto the pavement, gasping for breath, as a third angel hunter leaped onto the felled creature and slapped a collar around its neck.