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 angel
ic 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. “ALEXEI, LUCIEN, EVANGELINE.”
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.”
A hint of cruelty shone in Angela’s eyes, and Verlaine understood that she had succeeded in turning the interview around. Percival Grigori was once again in her power.
Angela hesitated for a moment, and then, taking the syringe in hand, moved toward him. Verlaine sensed with growing alarm that he should not be there, should not be witnessing Angela Valko’s final interaction with her father. In the decades since the film had been made, the virus in her syringe had infected 60 percent of the Nephilim, killing and disabling the creatures with a vicious efficiency. The disease had been such a powerful force that many in the society had joked that it was a pestilence sent from heaven to help along their work.
But Verlaine knew a terrible truth that Angela did not: The personal wager she was making would fail. The angel would tell her his secrets, but there would be consequences. Soon, within days after the film was shot, Angela Valko would lose her life.
The Third Circle
GLUTTONY
Angelopolis, Chelyabinsk, Russia
Dr. Merlin Godwin noted the heaviness of Evangeline’s breath, the labored flickering of her eyes, the expression of despair that crossed her face whenever she came back into consciousness. The last time he saw her she had been a little girl. She had stared at him with intransigent curiosity. He had spent twenty-five years looking for her, all the while hoping to have her just as he did now, weak as a dragonfly dessicated in the sun.
“Come, come, have some water,” he said, when she opened her eyes once more. Smiling, he poured water over her lips, letting it drip over her chin. The drugs were effective. Even if the straps were loosened she wouldn’t have the strength to lift her head.
“Do you remember me?” he whispered, caressing her arm with his finger. When it was clear that Evangeline had no clue who he was, he added, his voice little more than a whisper. “It was so long ago, but surely you recall how you came to see me with your mother.”
At Angela Valko’s request, Godwin had handled the scheduling of the visits, asking only that he organize the sessions with Evangeline when the lab was empty. As a result, they had met early in the morning or later in the evening, when the others had left the building. He had examined Evangeline himself, taking her pulse, listening to her breathe. He couldn’t help being moved at how the stolid Angela Valko, renowned for her sangfroid in the most unnerving situations, held her daughter close, steadying the girl’s trembling body as the needle slid into the vein, the bright vermilion blood drawn swiftly into the barrel of the syringe. The clinical nature of the procedure seemed to reassure Angela but not Evangeline—she had an instinctual fear that seemed to Godwin to belong less to a little girl than to a wild animal caught in a cage.
During each session, Angela watched the procedure with rapt attention, and Godwin could never tell if she felt anxiety or curiosity, if she secretly hoped to discover something unusual in the blood. But there was never anything at all unusual about the results when they came back from the lab. Still, Godwin had kept a sample from each session, labeling the vials and locking them in his medical case.
“Your mother insisted on the exams herself,” Godwin whispered, dabbing a drop of water from Evangeline’s chin. “And although she demonstrated a reasonable concern for your well-being, it’s difficult to understand the motives of a mother subjecting her own child to such invasive scrutiny. Unless, of course, she was not entirely human.”
Evangeline tried to speak. She had been heavily drugged. Although her voice was weak, and she could not focus her eyes, Godwin understood her when she said, “But my mother was human.”
“Yes, well, Nephilistic traits can appear in a human being, manifesting like a cancer,” Godwin said, walking to a table of medical instruments. A series of scalpels, the edges of varying acuity, lay in a line as if waiting for him. He chose one—not the sharpest but not the dullest either—and returned to Evangeline. “Both you and your mother appeared to be human, but angelic qualities could have—how shall I say it?—blossomed in you like a black and noxious flower. No one can say for sure why it happens, and it is quite rare for a human-born creature to transform, but it has occurred in the past.”
“And if there had been a change?” Evangeline asked.
“I would have been very pleased to have seen this happen,” Godwin said, his fingers rolling the scalpel. Once upon a time he had been Angela’s most prized student, the first in years to be granted his own laboratory, and the only one to be taken into her confidence. What she had not considered, and what he had not allowed her to see, was the extent of his ambition. “Unfortunately, neither of you showed signs of being anything but human. Your blood was red, for example, and you were born with a navel. But if you had changed, or shown signs of changing, and the angelologists had discovered this, you would have been handled in the usual fashion.”
“Which is?”
“You would have been studied.”
“You mean to say that we would have been killed.”
“You did not know your mother well,
” Godwin said, lightly. “She was above all else a scientist. Angela would have applauded the rigorous empirical study of any one of the creatures. She allowed you to be tested. Indeed, she pushed to have you studied.”
“And if I were one of them?” Evangeline asked. “Would she have sacrificed me?”
Godwin wanted to smile. He bit his lip instead, and concentrated upon the cold metal of the scalpel. “It makes no difference what she would have wanted. If there had been any sign of a genetic likeness to the Nephilim, and the society was alerted to this fact, you would have been removed from your mother’s care.”
Evangeline strained against the leather straps. “My mother would have resisted.”
“That her father was a Grigori was completely unknown at the time. Her heritage was hidden—from herself, from other agents—out of necessity. Your grandmother Gabriella understood that if it were known that Angela was an angel, such a taint would have ruined them both. The threat was not in what she was, but what she could become. Or, rather,” Godwin said, meeting Evangeline’s eye, “the danger was in her genetic potential—in what her body could create.”
“The threat was me.”
“I wouldn’t say that you pose much of a threat, Evangeline,” Godwin said, placing the scalpel on Evangeline’s neck and pressing it against her skin.
Godwin slid the sharp edge under Evangeline’s white skin until a bulb of blue blood rose, collecting into a globe. He watched it rise and fall over her collarbone, pooling and expanding in the arc of her neck. He took a glass vial from the table. Holding it to the light, he felt a surge of triumph.
Hermitage Bridge, Winter Canal, St. Petersburg
Verlaine’s thoughts were in a state of chaos as he walked with Vera and Bruno alongside the palace embankment, the dark water of the canal sluicing by below, glistening as if coated with a layer of oil. Two grand buildings rose on each side of the stone pathway, ornate and Italianate, and, for a moment, Verlaine had the feeling he was walking through a historical film about the Renaissance, that noblemen in velvet cloaks would step from behind the shadows. The contrast between his physical surroundings and the images playing in his mind—of Angela and Percival and the syringe filled with the virus—left him disoriented.
Angelopolis: A Novel (ANGELOLOGY SERIES) Page 8