The Gibborim, too, watched Celestine as her attendants brought the wheelchair to the altar. They lit candles and, using pieces of charred wood from the fire, drew symbols on the floor around Celestine—arcane sigils that Evangeline recognized from the angelological journal her grandmother had given her. She had looked upon those symbols many times but had never learned their meaning.
Suddenly Evangeline felt a hand on her arm and, turning, found herself in Gabriella’s embrace. For a brief moment, the terror she felt subsided, and she was simply a young woman in the arms of her beloved grandmother. Gabriella kissed Evangeline and then quickly turned to watch Celestine, examining her actions with a knowing eye. Evangeline stared at her grandmother, her heart in her throat. Although she looked older, and seemed thinner than Evangeline remembered, Evangeline felt a safe familiarity in Gabriella’s presence. She wished that she could speak to her grandmother in private. She had questions she needed to ask.
“What is happening?” Evangeline asked. She examined the creatures, which had become strangely still.
“Celestine has ordered the construction of a magical square within a holy circle. It is preparation for a summoning ceremony.” The attendants brought a wreath of lilies to Celestine and placed it upon her white hair. Gabriella said, “Now they are placing a crown of flowers upon Celestine’s head, which signifies the virginal purity of the summoner. I know the ritual intimately, although I have never seen it performed. Summoning an angel can bring powerful assistance, clearing away our enemies in an instant. In a situation like the one at hand—the convent besieged and the population of St. Rose outnumbered—it could be a most useful measure, perhaps the only measure to bring victory. Yet it is unbelievably dangerous, and certainly for a woman of Celestine’s age. The dangers usually far outweigh the benefits, especially in the case of calling forth an angel for the purpose of battle.”
Evangeline turned to her grandmother. A golden pendant, an exact replica of the one she had given to Evangeline, shone upon Gabriella’s neck.
“And battle,” Gabriella said, “is exactly what Celestine intends.”
“But the Gibborim are suddenly so placid,” Evangeline said.
“Celestine has hypnotized them,” Gabriella said. “It is called a Gibborish charm. We learned it as girls. Do you see her hands?”
Evangeline strained to see Celestine in her chair. Her hands were woven together over her chest, and both pointer fingers bent toward her heart.
“It causes the Gibborim to become momentarily stunned,” Gabriella said. “It will wear off in a moment, however, and then Celestine will need to work very quickly.”
Celestine lifted her arms into the air in a swift movement, releasing the Gibborim from the spell. Before they could resume their attack, she began to speak. Her voice echoed through the vaulted chapel.
“Angele Dei, qui custos es mei, me tibi commissum pietate superna, illumina, custodi, rege, et guberna.”
The Latin was familiar to Evangeline. She recognized it as an incantation, and to her amazement the spell began to take hold. The manifestation began as a gentle breeze, the faintest bluster of wind, and grew in a matter of seconds to a gale that rocked through the nave. In a burst of blinding light, a brilliantly illuminated figure appeared at the center of the twisting wind, hovering above Celestine. Evangeline forgot the danger posed by the summoning, the danger of the creatures surrounding them on all sides, and simply stared at the angel. It was immense, with golden wings spanning the length of the high central dome and arms held outstretched in a gesture that seemed to invite all to come closer. It glowed with intense light, its robes burning brighter than fire. Light gushed upon the nuns, falling over the floors of the church, glinting and fluid as lava. The angel’s body appeared both physical and ethereal at once—it hovered above and yet Evangeline was sure that she could see through it. Perhaps strangest of all, the angel began to assume Celestine’s features, re-creating the physical appearance of what she must have looked like in her youth. As the angel transformed into an exact replica of the summoner, becoming Celestine’s golden-hued twin, Evangeline was able to see the girl Celestine had once been.
The angel floated in midair, glittering and serene. When it spoke, its voice rang sweet and lilting through the church, vibrating with unnatural beauty. It said, “Do you call me in goodness?”
Celestine rose from her wheelchair with astonishing ease and knelt in the middle of the circle of candles, the white robe cascading about her. “I call you as a servant of the Lord to do the Lord’s work.”
“In His holy name,” the angel said, “I ask if your intentions are pure.”
“As pure as His holy Word,” Celestine said, her voice becoming stronger, more vibrant, as if the angel’s presence had strengthened her.
“Fear not, for I am a messenger of the Lord,” the angel said, its voice pure music. “I sing the Lord’s praise.”
In a cataclysm of wind, the church filled with music. A celestial chorus had begun to play.
“Guardian,” Celestine said, “our sanctuary has been desecrated by the dragon. Our structures burned, our sisters killed. As the Archangel Michael crushed the serpent’s head, so I ask you to crush these foul invaders.”
“Instruct me,” the angel said, its wings beating, its lithe body twisting in the air. “Where do these devils hide?”
“They are here upon us, ravaging His holy sanctuary.”
In an instant, so quickly that Evangeline had no time to react, the angel transformed into a sheet of fire, splitting into hundreds of tongues of flame, each flame morphing into a fully formed angel. Evangeline held Gabriella’s arm, bolstering herself against the wind. Her eyes burned, but she could not so much as blink as, swords raised, the warrior angels descended upon the chapel. The nuns fled in terror, running in all directions, a panic that jarred Evangeline from the trance the summoning had cast upon her. The angels struck the Gibborim dead, their bodies collapsing upon the altar and falling from the air midflight.
Gabriella ran to Celestine, Evangeline following close behind. The old nun lay upon the marble floor, her white robes spread around her, the wreath of lilies skewed. Placing her hand upon Celestine’s cheek, Evangeline found her skin hot, as if the summoning had scalded her. Examining her closely, Evangeline tried to understand how a frail, soft-spoken woman like Celestine had the power to defeat such beasts.
Somehow the candles had remained lit throughout the hurricane of the summoning, as if the angel’s violent presence had not translated into the physical world. They flickered brightly, casting the false glow of life upon Celestine’s skin. Evangeline arranged Celestine’s robes, gently folding the white fabric. Celestine’s hand, which had been hot only seconds before, had gone completely cold. In the course of a single day, Sister Celestine had become her true guardian, leading her through the confusion and putting her upon the correct path. Evangeline could not be certain, but it appeared to her that tears had formed in Gabriella’s eyes. “That was a brilliant summoning, my friend,” she whispered as she bent and kissed Celestine’s forehead. “Simply brilliant.”
Remembering Philomena, Evangeline opened her hand and gave her grandmother the key.
“Where did you get this?” Gabriella asked.
“The monstrance,” Evangeline said, gesturing to the shards of crystal on the floor. “It was inside.”
“So that is where they kept it,” Gabriella said, turning the key in her hand. Walking to the tabernacle, she fitted the key into the lock and opened the door. A small leather pouch was inside. “There is nothing more to do here,” Gabriella said. Gesturing for Evangeline to follow, she said, “Come, we must leave at once. We’re not out of danger yet.”
St. Rose Convent, Milton, New York
Verlaine walked across the lawn of the convent, his feet sinking into the snow. Only seconds before, the compound had nearly buckled under the weight of attack. The walls of the convent had been engulfed in flames, the courtyard filled with vile, belligere
nt creatures. Then, to his utter bewilderment, the battle had ceased. In an instant the fire had disappeared in the air, leaving behind only charred brick, sizzling metal, and the pungent smell of carbon. The creatures’ beating wings stilled midflight. They fell to the ground as if stricken by an electrical current, leaving heaps of broken bodies upon the snow. Verlaine observed the silent courtyard, the last remnants of smoke dispersing in the afternoon sky.
Walking to one of the bodies, he crouched before it. There was something odd about the appearance of the creature—not only had the radiance disappeared, but the entire physicality had changed. In death the skin had become mottled with imperfections—freckles, moles, scars, patches of dark hair. The clarified white of the fingernails had darkened, and when Verlaine pushed the body onto its stomach, he found that the wings had disappeared entirely, leaving behind a red powder. In life the creatures were half man, half angel. In death they appeared completely human.
Verlaine was distracted from the body by voices at the far side of the church. The population of St. Rose Convent filed into the courtyard and began to drag the bodies of Gibborim to the riverbank. Verlaine searched for Gabriella among them but could find her nowhere in their number. There were dozens of nuns, all dressed in heavy overcoats and boots. The women showed great determination in the face of the unpleasant work, organizing themselves into small groups and getting down to the business at hand without hesitation. As the bodies were large and unwieldy, the effort of four sisters was required to transport one creature. They dragged the corpses slowly over the courtyard to the banks of the Hudson, forming a groove of packed snow that slicked to ice. After stacking the creatures one upon another under the bower of a birch tree, they rolled them into the river. The bodies sank below the glassy surface as if weighted with lead.
As the nuns worked, Gabriella emerged from the church with a young woman, both of their faces blackened with smoke. He recognized Gabriella’s features in the young woman—the shape of the nose, the point of the chin, the high cheekbones. It was Evangeline.
“Come,” Gabriella said to Verlaine, clutching a brown leather case under her arm. “We haven’t time to waste.”
“But the Porsche has only two seats,” Verlaine said, realizing the problem even as he articulated it.
Gabriella stopped short, as if her inability to foresee the dilemma at hand annoyed her more than she wished to let on.
“Is there a problem?” Evangeline asked, and Verlaine felt himself drawn to the musical quality of her voice, the serenity of her manner, the ghostly shade of Gabriella in her features.
“Our car is rather small,” Verlaine said, wondering what Evangeline might be thinking.
Evangeline looked at him a moment too long, as if verifying that he was the same man she’d met the day before. When she smiled, he knew that he had not been mistaken. Something between them had taken hold.
“Follow me,” Evangeline said, turning on her heel and walking swiftly away. She traversed the courtyard quickly, with purpose, her small black shoes breaking through the snow. Verlaine knew that he would have followed her anywhere she cared to go.
Ducking between two of the utility vans, Evangeline led them along an icy sidewalk and through the side door of a brick garage. Inside, the air was stagnant and free of the dense smell of the fire. She lifted a set of keys from a hook and shook them.
“Get in,” she said, gesturing to the brown four-door sedan. “I’ll drive.”
THE HEAVENLY CHOIR
Soon, the angel began to sing, its voice climbing and falling with the lyre.
As if taking cue from this divine progression, the others joined the chorus,
each voice rising to create the music of heaven, a confluence akin to the
congregation described by Daniel, ten thousand times ten thousand angels.
—The Venerable Father Clematis of Thrace,
Notes on the First Angelological Expedition,
Translated by Dr. Raphael Valko
The Grigori penthouse, Upper East Side, New York City
December 24, 1999, 12:41 P.M.
Percival stood in his mother’s bedroom, a spare, meticulously white space at the very apex of the penthouse. A wall of glass overlooked the city, a gray mirage of buildings punctuated by the blue sky. The afternoon sun slid along a series of Gustave Doré etchings on the far wall, gifts to Sneja from Percival’s father many years before. The etchings depicted legions of angels basking in sunlight, tier upon tier of winged messengers arranged in rings, images magnified by the ethereal cast of the room. Once Percival had felt kinship to the angels in the pictures. Now, in his present condition, he could hardly bring himself to look at them.
Sneja lay sprawled upon her bed, sleeping. In her slumber—her wings retracted into a smooth skin upon her back—she looked like an innocent and well-fed child. Percival placed his hand upon her shoulder, and when he said her name, she opened her eyes and fixed him in her gaze. The aura of peacefulness that had surrounded her drained away. She sat up in bed, unfurled her wings, and arrayed them about her shoulders. They were perfectly groomed, the layers of colored feathers meticulously ordered, as if she’d had them cleaned before going to sleep.
“What do you want?” Sneja said, looking Percival up and down as if to take in the full scale of his disappointing appearance. “What has happened? You look terrible.”
Trying to remain calm, Percival said, “I must speak with you.”
Sneja threw her feet over the edge of her bed, hoisted herself up, and walked to the window. It was early afternoon. In the waning light, her wings seemed glossed in mother-of-pearl. “I should think it obvious that I’m taking a nap.”
“I wouldn’t disturb you if it were not urgent,” Percival said.
“Where is Otterley?” Sneja said, glancing over Percival’s shoulder. “Has she returned from the recovery effort? I am anxious to hear the details. We haven’t employed Gibborim in so very long.” She looked at Percival, and he saw at once how worried she was. “I should have gone myself,” she said, her eyes glistening. “The blaze of the fires, the rush of wings, the screams of the unsuspecting—it is like the old days.”
Percival bit his lip, unsure of how to respond.
“Your father is in from London,” Sneja said, wrapping herself in a long silk kimono. Her wings—healthy and immaterial as Percival’s had once been—slipped effortlessly through the fabric. “Come, we will catch him at during his lunch.”
Percival walked with his mother to the dining room, where Mr. Percival Grigori II, a middling Nephilim of some four hundred years who bore a striking resemblance to his son, sat at the table. He had taken his jacket off and allowed his wings to emerge through his oxford. As a schoolboy often in trouble, Percival had frequently found his father waiting for him in his study, his wings pointed nervously in this very same manner. Mr. Grigori was a strict, ill-tempered, cold, and ruthlessly aggressive man, whose wings echoed his temperament: They were austere and narrow appendages with dull silver feathers the color of fish scales that lacked the proper width or span. In fact, his father’s wings were the exact opposite of Sneja’s. Percival found it appropriate that their physical appearances should be so opposite. His parents had not lived together in nearly one hundred years.
Mr. Grigori tapped a World War II—era Meisterstück fountain pen against the table’s surface, another sign of impatience and irritation that Percival recognized from his childhood. Looking at Percival, he said, “Where have you been? We have been waiting for word from you all day.”
Sneja arranged her wings about her and sat at the table. Turning to Percival, she said, “Yes, my darling, tell us—what news from the convent?”
Percival fell into a chair at the head of the table, set his cane at his side, and took a deep, labored breath. His hands trembled. He felt both hot and cold at once. His clothes were soaked through with sweat. Each breath burned his lungs, as if the air fueled a kindling fire. He was slowly suffocating.
&nbs
p; “Calm yourself, son,” Mr. Grigori said, looking at Percival with contempt.
“He’s ill,” Sneja snapped, putting her fat hand on her son’s arm. “Take your time, dearest. Tell us what has put you in such a state.”
Percival could see his father’s disappointment and his mother’s growing helplessness. He did not know how he would gather the strength to speak of the disaster that had befallen them. Sneja had ignored his phone calls all morning. He had tried her many times during the lonely drive back to the city and she had simply refused to pick up. He would have much preferred to tell her the news on the phone.
At last Percival said, “The mission was unsuccessful.”
Sneja paused, understanding from the tone of her son’s voice that there was more bad news. “But that is impossible,” she said.
“I have just come from the convent,” Percival said. “I have seen it with my own eyes. We have suffered a terrible defeat.”
“What of the Gibborim?” Mr. Grigori said.
“Gone,” Percival said.
“Retreated?” Sneja asked.
“Killed,” Percival said.
“Impossible,” Mr. Grigori said. “We sent nearly one hundred of our strongest warriors.”
“And each one was struck down,” Percival said. “They were instantly killed. I walked through the aftermath and saw their bodies. Not one Gibborim lived.”
“This is unthinkable,” Mr. Grigori said. “Such a defeat has not occurred in my lifetime.”
“It was an unnatural defeat,” Percival said.
“Are you saying that there was a summoning?” Sneja asked, incredulous.
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