Angelology

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.

“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.

Percival folded his hands upon the table, relieved that he had stopped trembling. “I wouldn’t have believed it possible. There are not many angelologists alive who have been initiated into the art of summoning, especially in America, where they are at a loss for mentorship. But it is the only explanation for such complete destruction.”

“What does Otterley say about this?” Sneja asked, pushing away her chair and standing. “Surely she doesn’t believe that they have the strength to perform a summoning. The practice is all but extinct.”

“Mother,” Percival said, his voice strained with emotion, “we lost everyone in the attack.”

Sneja looked from Percival to her husband, as if only his reaction would make her son’s words true.

Percival’s voice faltered in shame and despair as he continued, “I was at a distance from the convent when the attack occurred, but I could see the terrible whirlwind of angels. They descended upon the Gibborim. Otterley was among their number.”

“You saw her body?” Sneja said, walking from one end of the room to the other. Her wings had pressed closed against her body, an involuntary physical reaction. “You are certain?”

“There is no doubt,” Percival said. “I watched the humans dispose of the bodies.”

“And what of the treasure?” Sneja said, growing frantic. “What of your trusted employee? What of Gabriella Lévi-Franche Valko? Tell me you have gained something from our losses?”

“By the time I arrived, they were gone,” Percival said. “Gabriella’s Porsche was abandoned at the convent. They took what they came for and left. It is over. There is no hope.”

“So let me get this straight,” Mr. Grigori said. Although Percival knew that his father adored Otterley, and must be in a state of unspeakable dispair, he displayed the icy calm that had so frightened Percival in his youth. “You allowed your sister to go into attack alone. Then you let the angelologists who killed her escape, losing the opportunity to retrieve a treasure we have sought for a thousand years. And you believe that you are finished?”

Percival regarded his father with hatred and yearning. How was it that he had not lost his strength with age and that Percival, who should be at the height of his powers, had become so weakened?

“You will pursue them,” Mr. Grigori said, standing to his full height, his silver wings fanning open about his shoulders. “You will find them and retrieve the instrument. And you will keep me informed as the hunt progresses. We will do whatever necessary to bring victory.”

Upper West Side, New York City

Evangeline turned onto West Seventy-ninth Street, driving slowly behind a city bus. Pausing at a red light, she glanced down Broadway, squinting to see the afternoon streetscape, and felt a rush of recognition. She’d spent many weekends with her father walking these streets, stopping for breakfast at any one of the cramped diners tucked along the avenues. The chaos of people slogging through the slush, the squish of buildings, the incessant movement of traffic in every direction-New York City was deeply familiar, despite her years away.

Gabriella lived only a few blocks ahead. Although Evangeline had not been to her grandmother’s apartment since her childhood, she remembered it well-the subdued façade of the brownstone, the elegant metalwork fence, the slanted view of the park. It used to be that she had recalled these images with care. Now thoughts of St. Rose filled her mind. Try as she might, she could not forget how the sisters looked at her as she left the church, as if the attack were somehow her fault and their youngest member had brought the Gibborim upon them. Evangeline kept her gaze fixed upon the pathway as she left them. It was all she could manage to get to the edge of the garage without looking back.

In the end Evangeline had betrayed her instincts and looked into the rearview mirror to see the sooty snow and the baleful sisters collected at the riverside. The convent was as dilapidated as a ruined castle, the lawn coated with ash from the fires. She, too, had changed. In a matter of minutes, she had shed her role as Sister Evangeline, Franciscan Sister of Perpetual Adoration, and had become Evangeline Angelina Cacciatore, Angelologist. As they drove from the grounds, birch trees rising at each side of the car like hundreds of marble pillars, Evangeline believed she saw the shadow of a fiery angel glinting in the distance, beckoning her onward.

On the journey to New York City, Verlaine had sat in the front seat, while Gabriella insisted upon taking the back, where she had spread out the contents of the leather case and examined them. Perhaps the silence imposed upon Evangeline at St. Rose had come to wear heavily on her-over the course of the drive, she had spoken frankly with Verlaine about her life, the convent, and even, to her surprise, her parents. She told him about her childhood in Brooklyn, how it was punctuated by walks with her father over the Brooklyn Bridge. She told him that the famous walkway that runs the length of the bridge was the one place where she had felt a carefree, undiluted happiness and for that reason, it was still her favorite place in the world. Verlaine asked more and more questions, and she was amazed by how readily and openly she answered each one, as if she’d known him all her life. It had been many years since she’d talked to someone like Verlaine-handsome, intelligent, interested in every detail. In fact, years had passed since she’d felt anything at all about a man. Her thoughts of men seemed, all at once, childish and superficial. Surely her behavior struck him as comically naive.

After Evangeline had found a parking spot, she and Verlaine followed Gabriella to the brownstone. The street was strangely barren. Snow swept the sidewalk; parked cars were encrusted with a thin layer of ice. The windows of Gabriella’s apartment, however, glowed. Evangeline detected movement beyond the glass, as if a group of friends awaited their arrival. She imagined the Times spread in sections on thick Oriental carpets, cups of tea balanced at the edges of end tables, fires kindled in gratings-those were the Sundays of her childhood, the afternoons she had spent in Gabriella’s care. Of course, her memories were those of a child, and her thoughts were filled with nostalgia and romance. She had no idea of what awaited her now.

As Gabriella unlocked the front door, someone pushed the dead bolt aside, turned a great brass doorknob, and opened the door. A bearish, dark-haired man with a hooded sweatshirt and a two-day stubble stood before them. Evangeline had never seen the man before. Gabriella, however, appeared to know him intimately.

“Bruno,” she said, embracing him warmly, an uncharacteristic gesture of intimacy. The man looked to be around fifty years old. Evangeline looked at the man more closely wondering if, despite the age difference, Gabriella could have remarried. Gabriella released Bruno. “Thank goodness you’re here.”

“Of course I’m here,” he said, equally relieved to see her. “The council members have been waiting for you.”

Turning to Evangeline and Verlaine, who stood together on the stoop, Bruno smiled and gestured for them to follow him through the entrance hallway. The smell of Gabriella’s home-its books and gleaming antique furniture-was instantly welcoming, and Evangeline felt her anxiety dissipating with each step into the house. The overloaded bookcases, the wall of framed portraits of famous angelologists, the air of seriousness that fell over the rooms like mist-everything in the brownstone was exactly as Evangeline remembered.

Removing her overcoat, she caught her image in a mirror in the hallway. The person standing before her startled her. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and her skin had been streaked black by smoke. She had never seemed so drab, so plain, so out of place as she did now, in the presence of her grandmother’s highly polished life. Verlaine stepped behind her and put his hand on her shoulder, a gesture that only yesterday would have filled her with terror and confusion. Now she was sorry when he took it away.

In the midst of all that had happened, she found it almost inexcusable that her thoughts were drawn to him. Verlaine stood only inches from her, and as she met his eyes in the mirror, she wanted him to be closer. She wished she understood his feelings better. She wished he would say something to assure her that he felt the same shock of pleasure when their eyes met.

Evangeline turned her attention back to her own reflection, realizing as she did how utterly laughable her dishevelment made her. Verlaine must find her ridiculous with her dour black clothing and her rubber-soled shoes. The manner of the convent had been etched into her.

“You must be wondering how you got here,” she said, endeavoring to understand his thoughts. “You fell into all of this by accident.”

“I admit,” he said, flushing, “it’s certainly been a surprising Christmas. But if Gabriella hadn’t found me, and I hadn’t gotten involved in all of this, I wouldn’t have met you.”

“Perhaps that might have been for the better.”

“Your grandmother told me quite a bit about you. I know that things aren’t all they seem. I know you went to St. Rose as a precautionary measure.”

“I went for more than that,” Evangeline said, realizing how complicated her motivation for staying at St. Rose was, and how difficult it would be to explain to him.

“Will you go back?” Verlaine asked, his expression anticipatory, as if her answer mattered a great deal to him.

Evangeline bit her lip, wishing she could tell him how difficult the question seemed to her. “No,” she said at last. “Never.”

Verlaine leaned close behind her, taking Evangeline by the hand. Her grandmother, the work before them, everything dissolved in his presence. Then he pulled her away from the mirror and led her into the dining room, where the others waited.

There was something cooking in the kitchen-the rich smell of meat and tomatoes filled the room. Bruno gestured to the table, set with linen napkins and Gabriella’s china. “You’ll need lunch,” Bruno said.

“I really don’t think there’s time for that,” Gabriella said, looking distracted. “Where are the others?”

“Sit,” Bruno ordered, gesturing to the chairs. “You have to eat something.” He pulled out a chair and waited until Gabriella sat. “It will only take a minute.” With that he disappeared into the kitchen.

Evangeline sat in the chair next to Verlaine. Crystal glasses glimmered in the weak light. A carafe of water sat mid-table, lemon slices floating on its surface. Evangeline poured a glass of water and gave it to Verlaine, her hand brushing his, sending a shock through her. She met his eye, and it struck her that she had met him only yesterday. How quickly her time at St. Rose receded, leaving behind the impression that her old life had been little more than a dream.

Soon Bruno returned with a great steaming pot of chili. The thought of lunch hadn’t crossed Evangeline’s mind all day-she’d become used to the grumbling of her stomach and the light-headedness that resulted from perpetual lack of water-but once the food was before her, she discovered that she was ravenous. Evangeline stirred the chili with a spoon, cooling the beans and tomatoes and pieces of sausage, and began to eat. The chili was spicy-the heat of it hit her at once. At St. Rose the sisters’ diet consisted of vegetables and bread and unseasoned meat. The spiciest thing she’d eaten in the past years had been a plum pudding made for the annual Christmas celebration. Reflexively, she coughed, covering her mouth with a napkin, heat spreading through her.

Verlaine jumped up and poured her a glass of water. “Drink this,” he said.

Evangeline drank the water, feeling silly. “Thank you,” she said when the spell had passed. “I haven’t had food like this in quite a while.”

“It will do you good,” Gabriella said, assessing her. “It looks like you haven’t eaten in months. Actually,” she added, standing and leaving her food unfinished, “I think you had better clean up a bit. I have some clothes that will suit you.”

Gabriella took Evangeline to a bathroom down the hall, where she directed her to step out of the sooty wool skirt and remove the smoke-filled shirt. Gabriella collected the dingy clothes and threw them in a trash bin. She gave Evangeline soap and water and clean towels so that she could wash. She gave her a pair of jeans and a cashmere sweater-both of which fit Evangeline perfectly, confirming that she and her grandmother were exactly the same height and weight. After Evangeline washed, Gabriella watched her dress with obvious approval of her granddaughter’s transformation into a new person entirely. Upon their return to the dining room, Verlaine simply stared at Evangeline with wonder, as if he were not quite sure she was the same person.

After they had finished eating, Bruno led them up the narrow wooden stairway. Evangeline’s heart quickened at the thought of what lay ahead. In the past her encounters with angelologists had always occurred accidentally through chance meetings with her father or grandmother, indirect and fleeting encounters that left her only half aware that something unusual had taken place. Her glimpses into the world her mother had occupied always made her curious and afraid simultaneously. In truth, the prospect of encountering the angelological council members face-to-face filled her with dread. Surely they would question her about what had happened that morning at St. Rose. Surely Celestine’s actions would be an object of deep fascination to them. Evangeline did not know how she would respond to such questioning.

Perhaps sensing her distress, Verlaine brushed his fingers against Evangeline’s hand, a gesture of comfort and care that once again sent electricity through her body. She turned and met his eyes. They were dark brown, almost black, and intensely expressive. Did he see how she reacted when he looked at her? Did he sense on the staircase that she lost her ability to breathe when he touched her? She could hardly feel her body as she climbed the remaining stairs after her grandmother.

At the top of the stairs, they stepped into a room that had always been locked during Evangeline’s childhood visits-she recalled the carvings upon the heavy wooden door, the huge brass knob, the keyhole she had tried to peer through. Then, looking through the keyhole, she had seen only swaths of sky. Now she understood the room to be filled with narrow windows. The glass opened the space to the ashen, purple light of impending dusk. Evangeline had never suspected that such a place had been hidden from her.

She stepped inside, amazed. The walls of the study were hung with paintings of angels, bright-hued figures in brilliant robes, wings spread over harps and flutes. There were heavily laden bookshelves, an antique escritoire, and a scattering of richly upholstered armchairs and divans. Despite the grandeur of the furnishings, the room had a shabby appearance-paint peeled upon the ceiling in curls, the edges of a massive steam radiator had rusted. Evangeline recalled the absence of funds her grandmother-and indeed all angelologists-had suffered in past years.

At the far end of the room, there was a cluster of antique chairs and a low, marble-topped table, where the angelologists waited. Evangeline recognized some of them at once-she had met them with her father many years before, although at the time she hadn’t understood their positions.

Gabriella introduced Evangeline and Verlaine to the council. There was Vladimir Ivanov, a handsome, aging Russian émigré who had been with the organization since the 1930s, after fleeing persecution in the USSR; Michiko Saitou, a brilliant young woman who acted as angelological strategist and international angelological coordinator while managing their global financial affairs in Tokyo; and Bruno Bechstein, the man they’d met downstairs, a middle-aged angelological scholar who had transferred to New York from their offices in Tel Aviv.

Of the three, Vladimir was most familiar to Evangeline, though he had aged drastically since she’d met him last. His face was etched with deep lines, and he appeared more serious than Evangeline remembered. The afternoon her father had placed her in Vladimir’s care, he had been exceedingly kind and she had disobeyed him. Evangeline wondered what had tempted him back to the line of work he had so adamantly disavowed.

Gabriella walked to the angelologists and placed the leather case upon the table. “Welcome, friends. When did you arrive?”

“This morning,” Saitou-san said. “Although we wished to be here sooner.”

“We came as soon as we learned of what happened,” Bruno added.

Gabriella gestured to three empty upholstered armchairs, their elaborately carved arms scuffed and dull. “Sit. You must be exhausted.”

Evangeline sank into the soft cushion of a couch, Verlaine at her side. Gabriella perched upon the edge of an armchair, the leather case in her lap. The angelologists watched her with avid attention.

“Welcome, Evangeline,” Vladimir said gravely. “It has been many years, my dear.” He gestured to the case. “I could not have imagined that these circumstances would bring us together.”

Gabriella turned to the leather case and pressed the clasps, opening them with a snap. Inside, Evangeline saw that everything remained exactly as she had left it: the angelology journal; the sealed envelopes containing Abigail Rockefeller’s correspondence; and the leather pouch they had retrieved from the tabernacle.

“This is the angelological journal of Dr. Seraphina Valko,” Gabriella said, taking it from the case. “Celestine and I used to refer to this notebook as Seraphina’s grimoire, a term we used only partially in jest. It is filled with works, spells, secrets, and imaginings of past angelologists.”

“I thought it was lost,” Saitou-san said.

“Not lost, only very well hidden,” Gabriella said. “I brought it to the United States. Evangeline has had it with her at St. Rose Convent, safe and sound.”

“Well done,” Bruno said, taking it from Gabriella. As he weighed it in his hands, he winked at Evangeline, making her smile in return.

“Tell us,” Vladimir said, glancing at the leather case, “what other discoveries have you made?”

Gabriella lifted the leather pouch from the case and slowly untied the string that bound it. A peculiar metallic object rested inside, an object unlike anything Evangeline had seen before. It was as small as a butterfly’s wing and made of a thin, pounded metal that shone in Gabriella’s fingers. It appeared delicate, yet when Gabriella allowed Evangeline to hold it, she felt it to be inflexible.

“It is the plectrum of the lyre,” Bruno said. “How brilliant to separate it from the lyre itself.”

“If you recall,” Gabriella said, “the Venerable Clematis separated the plectrum from the body of the lyre on the First Angelological Expedition. It was sent to Paris, where it remained in the possession of European angelologists until the early nineteenth century, when Mother Francesca brought it to the United States for safekeeping.”

“And built the Adoration Chapel around it,” Verlaine said. “Which would explain her elaborate architectural drawings.”

Vladimir seemed unable to take his eyes from the object. “May I?” he asked at last, delicately lifting the plectrum from Evangeline and cupping it in his hand. “It is lovely,” he said. Evangeline was moved by how gently he ran his finger over the metal, as if reading braille. “Unbelievably lovely.”

“Indeed,” Gabriella said. “It is fashioned from pure Valkine.”

“But how was it kept at the convent all this time?” Verlaine asked.

“In the Adoration Chapel,” Gabriella said. “Evangeline can be more precise than I-she was the one who discovered it.”

“It was hidden in the tabernacle,” Evangeline said. “The tabernacle was locked, and the key was hidden in the monstrance above. I am not exactly sure how the key came to be there, but it seems that it was very well secured.”

“Brilliant,” Gabriella said. “It makes perfect sense that they would keep it in the chapel.”

“How so?” Bruno inquired.

“The Adoration Chapel is the site of the sisters’ perpetual adoration,” Gabriella said. “Do you know the ritual?”

“Two sisters pray before the host,” Vladimir said, thoughtful. “To be replaced each hour by two more sisters. Is that correct?”

“Exactly so,” Evangeline said.

“They are attentive during adoration?” Gabriella asked, turning to Evangeline.

“Of course,” Evangeline said. “It is a time of extreme concentration.”

“And where is all that concentration focused?”

“Upon the host.”

“Which is where?”

Picking up on her grandmother’s line of thought, Evangeline said, “Of course-the sisters direct their entire attention to the host, which was held in the monstrance upon the altar and in the tabernacle. As the plectrum was hidden inside, the sisters unwittingly watched over the instrument as they prayed. The sisters’ perpetual adoration was an elaborate security system.”

“Exactly,” Gabriella said. “Mother Francesca discovered an ingenious method of guarding the plectrum twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. There was really no way for it to be discovered, let alone stolen, with such careful and ever-present attendants.”

“Except,” Evangeline said, “during the attack of 1944. Mother Innocenta was murdered on her way to the chapel. The Gibborim killed her before she could get there.”

“How remarkable,” Verlaine said. “For hundreds of years, the sisters have been performing an elaborate farce.”

“I don’t think they believed it a farce,” Evangeline said. “They were performing two duties at once: prayer and protection. None of us knew what was really inside the tabernacle. I had no idea that there was more to daily adoration than prayer.”

Vladimir stroked the metal with his fingertips. “The sound must be quite extraordinary,” he said. “For half a century, I have tried to imagine the exact pitch the kithara would make if plucked with a plectrum.”

“It would be a great mistake to experiment,” Gabriella said. “You know as well as I what could happen if one were to play it.”

“What could happen?” Vladimir asked, although it was clear that he knew the answer to his question before he asked it.

“The lyre was fashioned by an angel,” Bruno said. “As a result it has an ethereal sound, one that is both beautiful and destructive simultaneously and has unearthly-some might say unholy-ramifications.”

“Well said,” Vladimir told him, smiling at Bruno.

“I am quoting your magnum opus, Dr. Ivanov,” Bruno replied.

Gabriella paused to light a cigarette. “Vladimir knows very well that there is no telling what might occur. There are only theories-most of which are his own. The instrument itself has not been studied properly. We have never had it in our possession long enough to do so-but we know from Clematis’s account, and from the field notes taken by Seraphina Valko and Celestine Clochette, that the lyre exerts a seductive force over all who come into contact with it. This is what makes it so dangerous: Even those who mean well are tempted to play the lyre. And the repercussions of its music could be more devastating than anything we can imagine.”

“With a pluck of a string, the world as we know it could fold away and disappear,” Vladimir said.

“It could transform into hell,” Bruno said, “or into paradise. Legend has it that Orpheus discovered the lyre during his journey to the underworld and played it. This music ushered in a new era in human history-learning and husbandry flourished, the arts became a mainstay of human life. It’s one of the reasons Orpheus is so revered. It was an instance of the benefits of the lyre.”

“That’s an extraordinarily dangerous bit of romantic thinking,” Gabriella said sharply. “The lyre’s music is known to be destructive. Such utopian dreams as yours will lead only to annihilation.”

“Come now,” Vladimir said, gesturing to the object on the table. “A piece of the lyre is here, before us, waiting to be studied.”

All eyes fell upon the plectrum. Evangeline wondered at its power, its allure, the temptation and desire it inspired.

“One thing I do not understand,” she said, “is what the Watchers hoped to gain by playing the lyre. They were doomed creatures, banished from heaven. How could music save them?”

Vladimir said, “At the bottom of the Venerable Clematis’s account, written in his own hand, was Psalm 150.”

“The music of the angels,” Evangeline whispered, recognizing the psalm instantly. It was one of her favorites.

“Yes,” Saitou-san said. “Exactly so. The music of praise.”

“It is likely,” Bruno said, “that the Watchers were attempting to make amends with their Creator by singing His praises. Psalm 150 gives advice to those who wish to gain heavenly favor. If their attempts were successful, the imprisoned angels would have been reinstituted into the heavenly host. Perhaps their efforts were directed toward their own salvation.”

“That is one way to look at it,” Saitou-san said. “It is equally possible that they were trying to destroy the universe from which they had been banned.”

“An objective,” Gabriella added, tamping out her cigarette, “that they obviously failed to achieve. Come, let us move along to the purpose of this meeting,” she said, clearly irritated. “Over the past decade, all of the celestial instruments in our possession have been stolen from our safe holds in Europe. We’ve presumed they were taken by the Nephilim.”

“Some believe that such a symphony would free the Watchers,” Vladimir said.

“But anyone who has read the literature agrees that the Nephilim care nothing about the Watchers,” Gabriella said. “Indeed, before Clematis went into the cavern, the Watchers played the lyre, hoping to lure the Nephilim to their aid. It was utterly unsuccessful. No, the Nephilim are interested in the instruments for purely selfish reasons.”

“They want to heal themselves and their race,” Bruno added. “They want to become strong so that they can further enslave humanity.”

“And they have come too close to finding it for us not to take action,” Gabriella said. “It is my belief that they’ve apprehended the other celestial instruments for their own protection from us. But they desire the lyre for another reason altogether. They are attempting to restore themselves to a state of perfection their kind has not seen in hundreds of years. Although we have been dismayed at Abigail Rockefeller’s perpetual silence, so to speak, on the matter of its location, we have not worried that the lyre would be discovered. But obviously this has failed. The Nephilim are hunting, and we have to be ready.”

“It seems Mrs. Rockefeller had our best interests in mind after all,” Evangeline said.

“She was an amateur,” Gabriella said, dismissive. “She took an interest in angels in the way her wealthy friends were interested in charity balls.”

“It is a good thing she did,” Vladimir said. “How do you suppose we received such crucial support during the war, not the least of which was her funding for our expedition of 1943? She was a devout woman who believed that great wealth should be used to great ends.” Vladimir leaned back into his chair and crossed his legs.

“Which, for good or ill, turned out to be a dead end,” Bruno murmured.

“Not necessarily,” Gabriella said, eyeing Bruno. She slid the plectrum into its leather pouch and removed a gray envelope from inside the leather case. On the face of the envelope was the pattern of Roman letters written into a square. If Celestine’s words held true, it was the envelope containing the Rockefeller letters. Gabriella placed it on the table before the angelologists. “Celestine Clochette instructed Evangeline to bring this to us.”

The angelologists’ interest became tangible as they spied the symbol stamped upon the envelope. Their reactions fired Evangeline’s curiosity. “What does it mean?” she asked.

“It is an angelological seal, a Sator-Rotas Square,” Vladimir said. “We have placed this seal upon documents for many hundreds of years. It announces the importance of the document and verifies that it has been sent by one of us.”

Gabriella folded her arms across her chest, as if cold, and said, “This afternoon I had the opportunity to read Innocenta’s half of her correspondence with Abigail Rockefeller. It became clear to me that Innocenta and Abigail Rockefeller were communicating about the lyre’s location obliquely, although neither Verlaine nor I was able to discern how.”

Evangeline watched from the edge of the upholstered chair, her spine exceedingly straight. She experienced a strange sense of déjà vu as Vladimir took the gray envelope with determined calm from Verlaine. He closed his eyes, whispered a series of incomprehensible words-a spell or a prayer, Evangeline could not say which-and tore the envelope open.

Inside, there were time-weathered envelopes the length and width of Evangeline’s outstretched hand. Adjusting his eyeglasses, Vladimir raised the letters close to get a clear view of the script. “They’re addressed to Mother Innocenta,” he said, placing the envelopes on the table between them.

There were six envelopes containing six missives, one more than Innocenta had written. Evangeline peered at them. On the face of each envelope were canceled stamps: one red two-cent stamp and one green one-cent stamp.

Picking up one of the missives and turning it over, Evangeline saw the Rockefeller name embossed on the back, along with a return address on West Fifty-fourth Street, less than a mile away.

“The location of the lyre is surely disclosed in these letters,” Saitou-san said.

“I don’t think we can come to a conclusion without reading them,” Evangeline said.

Without further hesitation Vladimir opened each of the envelopes and placed six small cards on the table. The stock was thick and creamy white, a border of gold at the edges. Identical designs had been printed on the face of each of the cards. Grecian goddesses with laurel-leaf wreaths upon their heads danced amid swarms of cherubs. Two of the angels-fat, babylike cherubs with rounded moth wings-held lyres in their hands.

“This is a classic 1920s Art Deco design,” Verlaine said, picking up one of the cards and examining it. “The lettering is the same font that was used by the New Yorker magazine on its cover. And the symmetrical positioning of the angels is classic. The dual cherubs with their lyres are mirror images of one another, which is a quintessential Art Deco motif.” Leaning over the card so that his hair fell into his eyes, Verlaine said, “And this is most definitely Abigail Rockefeller’s handwriting. I’ve examined her journals and personal correspondence many times. There’s no mistaking it.”

Vladimir took the cards and read them, his blue eyes scanning the lines. Then, with the air of a man who had been patient for too many years, he placed them back on the table and stood. “They say nothing at all,” he said. “The first five cards are as evocative as laundry lists. The last card is completely blank, except for the name ‘Alistair Carroll, Trustee, Museum of Modern Art.’”

“They must give some information about the lyre,” Saitou-san said, picking up the cards. Vladimir gazed at Gabriella for a moment, as if weighing the possibility that he’d missed something. “Please,” he said. “Read them. Tell me that I am wrong.”

Gabriella read the cards one by one, passing them on to Verlaine, who read through them so quickly that Evangeline wondered how he could have taken in what they said.

Gabriella sighed. “They are exactly the same in tone and content as Innocenta’s letters.”

“Meaning?” asked Saitou-san.

“Meaning they discuss the weather, charity balls, dinner parties, and Abigail Rockefeller’s idle artistic contributions to the sisters of St. Rose Convent’s annual Christmas fund-raiser,” Gabriella said. “They give no direct instruction for finding the lyre.”

“We’ve put all our hope into Abigail Rockefeller,” Bruno said. “What if we’ve been wrong?”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss Mother Innocenta’s role in these exchanges,” Gabriella said, glancing at Verlaine. “She was known as a woman of remarkable subtlety, and she could persuade others in the art of subtlety as well.”

Verlaine sat silently examining the cards. Finally he stood, took a folder from his messenger bag, and placed four letters on the table next to the cards. The fifth letter remained at the convent, where Evangeline had left it. “These are Innocenta’s letters,” he said, smiling sheepishly at Evangeline, as if even now she judged him for stealing them from the Rockefeller Archive. He placed Rockefeller’s cards and Innocenta’s letters side by side in chronological order. In quick succession he extracted four of Rockefeller’s cards and, putting them before him, studied each cover. Evangeline was perplexed by Verlaine’s actions, and she only became more so when he began to smile as if something in the cards amused him. At last he said, “I think Mrs. Rockefeller was even more clever than we have given her credit for.”

“I’m sorry,” Saitou-san said, leaning over the cards, “but I don’t understand how the letters convey a thing.”

“Let me show you,” Verlaine said. “Everything is here in the cards. This is the correspondence in chronological order. Because of the absence of overt directions about the lyre’s location, we can assume the content of Rockefeller’s half of the correspondence is null, a kind of white space upon which Innocenta’s responses project meaning. As I pointed out to Gabriella this morning, there is a recurring pattern in Innocenta’s letters. In four of them, she comments upon the nature of some kind of design that Abigail Rockefeller has included in her correspondence. I see now,” Verlaine concluded, gesturing to Mrs. Rockefeller’s cards on the table before him, “that Innocenta was commenting specifically on these four pieces of stationery.”

“Read these remarks to us, Verlaine,” Gabriella said.

Verlaine picked up Innocenta’s letters and read aloud the sentences that praised Abigail Rockefeller’s artistic taste, repeating the passages he had read to Gabriella that morning.

“At first I believed Innocenta was refering to drawings, perhaps even original artworks included in the letters, which would have been the find of a century for a scholar of modern art like myself. But realistically, the inclusion of such designs would have been highly unlike Mrs. Rockefeller. She was a collector and lover of art, not an artist in her own right.”

Verlaine pulled four creamy cards from the progression of papers and distributed them to the angelologists.

“These are the four cards Innocenta admired,” he said.

Evangeline examined the card Verlaine had given her. She saw it had been stamped by an inked plate that left a remarkably fine rendering of two antique lyres held in the hands of twin cherubs. The cards were pleasing to look at and very much in keeping with a woman of Abigail Rockefeller’s taste, but Evangeline saw nothing that would unlock the mystery before them.

“Look closely at the twin cherubs,” Verlaine said. “Notice the composition of the lyres.”

The angelologists peered at the cards, exchanging them so that they could see each one in turn.

Finally, after some examination, Vladimir said, “There is an anomaly in the prints. The lyres are different on each card.”

“Yes,” Bruno said. “The number of strings on the left lyre varies from the number on the right.”

Evangeline saw her grandmother examine her card and, as if she had begun to understand Verlaine’s point, smile. “Evangeline,” Gabriella said. “How many strings do you count on each of the lyres?”

Evangeline looked more closely at her card and saw that Vladimir and Bruno were correct-the strings were different on each lyre-although it struck her as an oddity in the cards rather than anything of serious consequence. “Two and eight,” Evangeline said, “but what does it mean?”

Verlaine took a pencil from his pocket and, in barely legible lead, wrote numbers below the lyres. He passed the pencil around and asked the others to do the same.

“It seems to me that we are making much of a highly unrealistic rendition of a musical instrument,” Vladimir said dismissively.

“The number of strings on each lyre must have been a method of coding information,” Gabriella said.

Verlaine collected the cards from Evangeline, Saitou-san, Vladimir, and Bruno. “Here you have them: twenty-eight, thirty-eight, thirty, and thirty-nine. In that order. If I’m right, these numbers come together to give the location of the lyre.”

Evangeline stared at Verlaine, wondering if she’d missed something. To her the numbers appeared to be utterly meaningless. “You believe that these numbers give an address?”

“Not directly,” Verlaine said, “but there might be something in the sequence that points to an address.”

“Or coordinates on a map,” Saitou-san suggested.

“But where?” Vladimir said, his brow furrowing as he thought of the possibilities. “There are hundreds of thousands of addresses in New York City.”

“This is where I’m stumped,” Verlaine said. “Obviously these numbers must have been extremely important to Abigail Rockefeller, but there is no way to know how they’re to be used.”

“What sort of information could be conveyed in eight numbers?” Saitou-san asked, as if running the possibilities through her mind.

“Or, possibly, four two-digit numbers,” Bruno said, clearly amused by the dubiousness of the exercise.

“And all the numbers are between twenty and forty,” Vladimir offered.

“There must be more in the cards,” Saitou-san said. “These numbers are too random.”

“To most people,” Gabriella said, “this would seem random. To Abigail Rockefeller, however, these numbers must have formed a logical order.”

“Where did the Rockefellers live?” Evangeline asked Verlaine, knowing that this was his area of expertise. “Perhaps these numbers point to their address.”

“They lived at a few different addresses in New York City,” Verlaine said. “But their West Fifty-fourth Street residence is known best. Eventually Abigail Rockefeller donated the site to the Museum of Modern Art.”

“Fifty-four is not one of our numbers,” Bruno said.

“Wait a moment,” Verlaine said. “I don’t know why I didn’t see this before. The Museum of Modern Art was one of Abigail Rockefeller’s most important endeavors. It was also one of the first in a series of public museums and monuments that she and her husband funded. The Museum of Modern Art was opened in 1928.”

“Twenty-eight is the first number from the cards,” Gabriella said.

“Exactly,” Verlaine said, his excitement growing. “The numbers two and eight from the lyre etching could point to this address.”

“If that is the case,” Evangeline said, “there would have to be three other locations that match the three other lyre renderings.”

“What are the remaining numbers?” Bruno asked.

“Three and eight, three and zero, and three and nine,” Saitou-san replied.

Gabriella leaned closer to Verlaine. “Is it possible,” she said, “that there is a correspondence?”

Verlaine’s expression was one of intense concentration. “Actually,” he said at last. “The Cloisters, which was John D. Rockefeller Jr.’s great love, opened in 1938.”

“And 1930?” Vladimir asked.

“Riverside Church, which, to be honest, I have never found interesting, must have been completed around 1930.”

“That leaves 1939,” Evangeline said, the anticipation of discovery making her so nervous she could hardly speak. “Did the Rockefellers build something in 1939?”

Verlaine was silent, his brow furrowed, as if he were sifting the multitude of addresses and dates cataloged in his memory. Suddenly, he said, “As a matter of fact, they did. Rockefeller Center, their own Art Deco magnum opus, opened in 1939.”

“The numbers communicated to Innocenta must refer to these locations,” Vladimir said.

“Well done, Verlaine,” Saitou-san said, ruffling his mess of curls.

The atmosphere in the room had shifted drastically to a buzz of restless anticipation. For her part, Evangeline could only stare at the cards in astonishment. They’d rested in a vault beneath her and the other unsuspecting sisters for more than fifty years.

“However,” Gabriella said, breaking the spell, “the lyre can be in only one of these four locations.”

“Then it will be most expedient if we divide into groups and search them all,” Vladimir said. “Verlaine and Gabriella will go to the Cloisters. It’ll be packed with tourists, so getting anything out of there will be a delicate procedure. I believe it best accomplished by one familiar with its conventions. Saitou-san and I will go to Riverside Church. And Evangeline and Bruno will go to the Museum of Modern Art.”

“And Rockefeller Center?” Verlaine asked.

Saitou-san said, “It’s impossible to do anything there today. It’s Christmas Eve, for God’s sake. The place will be a madhouse.”

“I expect that’s why Abigail Rockefeller chose it,” Gabriella said. “The more difficult it is to access, the better.”

Gabriella took the leather case holding the plectrum and the angelological notebook in hand. She gave each group the card associated with its location. “I can only hope the cards will assist us in finding the lyre.”

“And if they do?” Bruno said. “What then?”

“Ah, that is the great dilemma we face,” Vladimir said, running his fingers through his silver hair. “To preserve the lyre or to destroy it.”

“Destroy it?” Verlaine cried. “From all that you’ve said, it’s obvious that the lyre is beautiful, precious beyond all reckoning.”

“This instrument is not just another ancient artifact,” Bruno said. “It isn’t something that one might put on display at the Met. Its dangers far outweigh any historical importance it may have. There is no option but to destroy it.”

“Or to hide it again,” Vladimir said. “There are numerous places in which we could secure it.”

“We tried this in 1943, Vladimir,” Gabriella said. “It is plain that this method has failed. Preserving the lyre would imperil future generations, even in the most secure of hiding places. It must be destroyed. That much is clear. The real question is how.”

“What do you mean?” Evangeline asked.

Vladimir said, “It is one of the primary qualities of all celestial instruments: They were created by heaven and can be destroyed only by heaven’s creatures.”

“I don’t understand,” Verlaine said.

“Only celestial beings, or creatures with angelic blood, can destroy celestial matter,” Bruno said.

“Including the Nephilim,” Gabriella said.

“So if we wish to destroy the lyre,” Saitou-san said, “we must place it in the hands of the very creatures we wish to keep it from.”

“A bit of a conundrum,” Bruno said.

“So why hunt it down it at all?” Verlaine asked, dismayed. “Why bring something so important out of safety only to destroy it?”

“There is no alternative,” Gabriella said. “We have the rare opportunity to take possession of the lyre. We will have to find a way to dispose of it once we recover it.

“If we recover it,” Bruno added.

“We are wasting time,” Saitou-san said, standing. “We will have to decide what to do with the lyre once we have it in our possession. We cannot risk the Nephilim’s discovery of it.”

Looking at his watch, Vladimir said, “It is nearly three. We will meet at Rockefeller Center at exactly six. That gives us three hours to make contact, search the buildings, and reconvene. There can be no mistakes. Plan the quickest route possible. Speed and precision are absolutely necessary.”

Leaving their chairs, they put on jackets and scarves, preparing to face the cold winter dusk. In a matter of seconds, the angelologists were ready to begin. As they walked toward the staircase, Gabriella turned to Evangeline. “In our haste we must not lose sight of the dangers of our work. I warn you-be very careful in your efforts. The Nephilim will be watching. Indeed, they have been waiting for this moment for a very long time. The instructions Abigail Rockefeller left us are the most precious papers you have ever touched. Once the Nephilim understand we’ve discovered them, they will attack without mercy.”

“But how will they know?” Verlaine asked, coming to Evangeline’s side.

Gabriella smiled a sad, significant smile. “My dear boy, they know exactly where we are. They have planted informants all over this city. At all times, in all places, they are waiting. Even now they are near, watching us. Please,” she said, looking pointedly at Evangeline once more, “be careful.”

Museum of Modern Art, New York City

Evangeline pressed her hand to the brick wall running alongside West Fifty-fourth Street, the icy wind searing her skin. Above, sheets of glass reflected the Sculpture Garden, simultaneously opening the intricate workings of the museum and presenting the garden’s image back upon itself The lights inside had been dimmed. Patrons and museum employees moved through the interior of the galleries, visible at the outer edge of Evangeline’s vision. A darkened reflection of the garden appeared in the glass as warped, distorted, unreal.

“It looks like they’re closing soon,” Bruno said, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his ski jacket and walking to the entrance. “We’d better hurry.”

At the door Bruno swept through the crowds and made his way to the ticket desk, where a tall, thin man with a goatee and horn-rimmed glasses was reading a novel by Wilkie Collins. He looked up, glanced from Evangeline to Bruno, and said, “We’re closing in half an hour. We’re closed tomorrow for Christmas, but open again on the twenty-sixth.” With that he returned to his book, as if Bruno and Evangeline were no longer there.

Bruno leaned on the counter and said, “We’re looking for someone who might work here.”

“We are not allowed to disclose personal information about employees,” the man said, without looking up from his novel.

Bruno slid two one-hundred-dollar bills over the counter. “We don’t need personal information. Just where we can find him.”

Peering over his horn-rimmed glasses, the man placed his palm on the counter and slid the money into his pocket. “What’s the name?”

“Alistair Carroll,” Bruno said, giving him the card included in Abigail Rockefeller’s sixth letter. “Ever heard of him?”

He looked over the card. “Mr. Carroll is not an employee.”

“So you know him,” Evangeline said, relieved and a bit amazed that the name corresponded to a real person.

“Everyone knows Mr. Carroll,” the man said, walking out from behind the desk and leading them to the street. “He lives across from the museum.” He pointed to an elegant prewar apartment building, slightly slouched with age. A copper mansard roof punctuated with great porthole windows topped the building, a wash of patina streaking the bronze green. “But he’s hanging around here all the time. He’s one of the old guard of the museum.”

Bruno and Evangeline hurried across the street to the apartment building. Once inside the entryway, Bruno and Evangeline found the name CARROLL written on a brass mailbox: apartment nine, floor five. They called a rickety elevator, the wooden cab filled with a floral powder essence, as if it had recently released old ladies on their way to church. Evangeline pressed a black knob stamped with a white 5. The elevator door creaked closed as the car lurched, grinding slowly upward. Bruno took Abigail Rockefeller’s card from his pocket and held it.

On the fifth floor, there were two apartments, both equally quiet. Bruno checked the number and, finding the correct door-a brass number 9 screwed on it-he knocked.

The door opened a crack, and an old man peered at them, his large blue eyes glistening with curiosity. “Yes?” the man whispered, his voice barely audible. “Who is it?”

“Mr. Carroll?” Bruno said, personable and polite, as if he had knocked on a hundred such doors. “Very sorry to disturb you, but we have been given your name and address by-”

“Abby,” he said, his eyes fixed on the card in Bruno’s hand. He opened the door wide and waved them inside. “Please, come in. I have been expecting you.”

A pair of Yorkshire terriers with red ribbons tied into the fur over their eyes jumped off a couch and bounded to the door as Bruno and Evangeline stepped into the apartment, barking as if to frighten away intruders.

“Oh, you silly girls,” Alistair Carroll said. He swooped them up, tucking one dog under each arm, and carried them down a hallway.

The apartment was spacious, the antique furniture simple. Each object appeared both treasured and neglected, as if the decor had been painstakingly chosen with the intent that it would be ignored. Evangeline sat on the couch, its cushions still warm from the dogs. A marble fireplace held a small, intense fire that sent heat through the room. A polished Chippendale coffee table sat before her, a crystal bowl of hard candies at its center. Except for a Sunday Times folded discreetly on an end table, it appeared as though nothing had been touched in fifty years. A framed color lithograph sat upon the mantel of the fireplace, a portrait of a woman, stout and pink, with the features of a wary bird. Evangeline had never had reason or desire to seek out a likeness of Mrs. Abigail Rockefeller, but she knew in an instant that this was the woman herself.

Alistair Carroll returned without the dogs. He had short, precisely clipped gray hair. He wore brown corduroy trousers, a tweed jacket, and had a comforting manner that put Evangeline at ease. “You must forgive my girls,” he said, sitting in an armchair near the fire. “They are unused to company. We have very few guests these days. They were simply overjoyed to see you.” He clasped his hands in his lap. “But enough of that,” he said. “You haven’t come here for pleasantries.”

“Maybe you can tell us why we are here,” Bruno said, joining Evangeline on the couch and placing the Rockefeller card on the table. “There was no explanation-only your name and the Museum of Modern Art.”

Alistair Carroll unfolded a pair of spectacles and put them on. Picking up the envelope, he examined it closely. “Abby wrote out that card in my presence,” he said. “But you have only one card. Where are the others?”

“There are six of us working together,” Evangeline said. “We split into groups, to save time. My grandmother has two envelopes.”

“Tell me,” Alistair said, “is your grandmother named Celestine Clochette?”

Evangeline was surprised to here Celestine’s name, especially from a man who could not possibly have known her. “No,” she said. “Celestine Clochette is dead.”

“I am very sorry to hear that,” Alistair said, shaking his head in dismay. “And I am also sorry to hear that the recovery effort is being done in a piecemeal fashion. Abby made specific requirements that the recovery would be accomplished by one person, either Mother Innocenta or, if time went by, as it most certainly has, a woman named Celestine Clochette. I remember the conditions very well: I was Mrs. Rockefeller’s assistant in this matter, and it was I who hand-delivered this card to St. Rose Convent.”

“But I thought that Mrs. Rockefeller had taken permanent possession of the lyre,” Bruno said.

“Oh, my, no,” Alistair said. “Mrs. Rockefeller and Mother Innocenta had agreed upon a set time to return the objects under our care-Abby didn’t expect to be responsible for these items forever. She intended to return them as soon as she felt that it was safe to do so-namely, at the end of the war. It was our understanding that Innocenta, or Celestine Clochette if need be, would care for the envelopes and, when the time came, follow their instructions in a particular order. The requirements were made to ensure both the safety of the objects and the safety of the person engaged in recovery.”

Bruno and Evangeline exchanged glances. Evangeline was certain that Sister Celestine had not known anything about these instructions.

“We didn’t get specific directions,” Bruno said. “Only a card that led us here.”

“Perhaps Innocenta didn’t relate the information before her death,” Evangeline said. “I’m sure that Celestine would have made certain that Mrs. Rockefeller’s wishes were followed, had she known.”

“Ah, well,” Alistair said, “I see that there is some confusion. Mrs. Rockefeller was under the impression that Celestine Clochette would be leaving the convent to return to Europe. It is my recollection that Miss Clochette was a temporary guest.”

“It didn’t work out that way,” Evangeline said, remembering how frail and sickly Celestine had become in the last days of her life.

Alistair Carroll closed his eyes, as if pondering the correct path to take in the completion of the matter at hand. Standing abruptly, he said, “Well, there is nothing to do but continue. Please join me-I would like to show you my extraordinary view.”

They followed Alistair Carroll to a wall of large porthole windows, the very ones Evangeline had noticed from the street below. At their vantage, the Museum of Modern Art spread before them. Evangeline pressed her hands upon the copper frame of the porthole window and peered down. Directly below them, contained and orderly, lay the famous Sculpture Garden, its rectangular floor plated in gray marble. A narrow pool of water shimmered at the center of the garden, creating an obsidian darkness. Through wisps of snow, slabs of gray marble wept purple.

“From here I can watch the garden night and day,” Alistair Carroll said quietly. “Mrs. Rockefeller bought this apartment for that very purpose-I am the guardian of the garden. I have watched many changes take place in the years since her death. The garden has been torn up and redesigned; the collection of statuary has grown.” He turned to Evangeline and Verlaine. “We could not have foreseen that the trustees would find it necessary to change things so drastically over the years. Philip Johnson’s 1953 garden-the iconic modern garden that one thinks of when one imagines it-wiped out all traces of the original garden Abby had known. Then, for some bizarre reason, they decided to modernize Philip Johnson’s garden-a travesty, a terrible error in judgment. First they ripped up the marble-a lovely Vermont marble with a unique shade of blue-gray to it-and replaced it with an inferior variety. They later discovered that the original had been far superior, but that is another matter. Then they ripped the whole thing up again, replacing the new marble with one that was similar to the original. It would have been most distressing to watch, if I had not taken matters into my own hands.” Alistair Carroll crossed his arms over his chest, a look of satisfaction appearing upon his face. “The treasure, you see, was originally hidden in the garden.”

“And now?” Evangeline asked, breathless. “It is no longer there?”

“Abby secured it in the hollow underside of one of the statues-Aristide Maillol’s The Mediterranean, which has a great hollow space at its base. She believed that Celestine Clochette would arrive within months, perhaps a year at the most. It would have been safe for a short amount of time. But at the time of Abby’s death in 1948, Celestine had still not come. Soon after, plans were made for Philip Johnson to create his modern Sculpture Garden. I took it upon myself to move it before they tore the garden apart,” he said.

“That seems like a difficult procedure,” Bruno said. “Especially under the kind of security implemented at the MoMA.”

“I am a lifetime trustee of the museum, and my access-although not as complete as Abby’s-was considerable. It was not difficult to arrange its removal. It was simply a matter of having the statue moved for cleaning and extracting it. It was a very good thing I had the foresight to do so: The treasure would have been discovered or damaged had I left it. When Celestine Clochette did not come, I knew that I must simply hold on and wait.”

Bruno said, “There must have been safer ways of securing something so precious.”

“Abby believed the treasure would be most safe in a populated environment. Together the Rockefellers created magnificent public spaces. Mrs. Rockefeller, always a practical woman, wanted to use them. Of course, with such priceless pieces of art inside, the museums were also the most secure locations on the island of Manhattan. The Sculpture Garden and the Cloisters are under constant scrutiny. Riverside Church was a more sentimental choice-the Rockefeller family built the church on the site of Mr. Rockefeller’s former school. And Rockefeller Center, the great symbol of Rockefeller power and influence, was a nod to the Rockefellers’ social standing in the city. It represented the range of their power. I suppose Mrs. Rockefeller could have thrown all four pieces into a bank vault and left it at that, but it wasn’t her style. The hiding places are symbolic: two museums, a church, and a commercial center. Two parts art, one part religion, and one part money-these are the exact proportions by which Mrs. Rockefeller wished herself to be remembered.”

Bruno gave Evangeline a look of amusement at Alistair Carroll’s speech, but said nothing.

Alistair Carroll left the room and returned after some moments with a long rectangular metal casket. He presented it to Evangeline and gave her a small key. “Open it.”

Evangeline inserted the key into a tiny lock and turned. The metal mechanism ground against itself, rust blocking its progress, and then clicked. Opening the lid, Evangeline saw two long thin bars, slender and golden, resting in a bed of black velvet.

“What are they?” Bruno asked, his surprise apparent.

“Why, the crossbars, of course,” Alistair said. “What did you expect?”

“We thought,” Evangeline said, “that you were keeping the lyre.”

“The lyre? No, no, we did not hide the lyre at the museum.” Alistair smiled as if he were at last allowed to tell them his secret. “At least not all of it.”

“You took the liberty of dismantling it?” Bruno asked.

“It would have been much too risky to hide it in one place,” Alistair said, shaking his head. “And so we disassembled it. It is now in four pieces.”

Evangeline stared at Alistair in disbelief. “It is thousands of years old,” she said at last. “It must be extraordinarily fragile.”

“It is a surprisingly sturdy instrument,” he said. “And we had the help of the best professionals money could buy. Now, if you don’t mind,” he said, leading them back to the fireplace and taking a seat in the armchair. “There are a number of pieces of information I have been entrusted to relate to you.

As I mentioned, Mrs. Rockefeller assumed that the pieces would be collected by one person and that they would be retrieved in a certain order. She planned the recovery in a very meticulous fashion. The Museum of Modern Art was the first location-thus she included a card with my name for you-followed by Riverside Church, the Cloisters, and then Prometheus.”

“Prometheus?” Evangeline asked.

“The statue of Prometheus at Rockefeller Center,” Alistair said, straightening in his chair so that he appeared suddenly taller, more patrician than before. “The order was arranged in this fashion so that I could give you specific instructions, as well as words of advice and caution. You will find a man at Riverside Church, one Mr. Gray, an employee of the Rockefeller family. Abby trusted him with the position, but frankly I don’t understand why. One cannot say if he has remained attentive to Mrs. Rockefeller’s wishes after all these years-he has come to me on a number of occasions requesting money. In my book, indigence is never a good sign. In any event, if there is time, I suggest you bypass Mr. Gray altogether.” Alistair Carroll removed a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his tweed jacket and unrolled it on the coffee table. “This shows the exact location of the lyre’s sound chest.”

Alistair Carroll gave Evangeline the paper so that she might examine the maze at its center.

“The labyrinth on the chancel of Riverside Church is similar to the one found at Chartres Cathedral in France,” Alistair explained. “Traditionally labyrinths were used as tools in contemplation. For our purposes a shallow vault was installed below the central flower of the labyrinth, a seamless compartment that can be removed and replaced without damaging the floor. Abby locked the sound chest inside. It was to be removed according to these instructions.”

“As for the strings of the lyre,” he continued, “that is another matter altogether. They are located in the Cloisters and must be removed with the assistance of the director, a woman who has been informed of Mrs. Rockefeller’s wishes and will know the best approach in circumstances such as ours. The museum will be open for another half an hour or so. The director of that space has orders to allow full access. With a call from me, it shall be done. There is simply no other way to go about it without causing mayhem. You said that your associates are there now?”

“My grandmother,” Evangeline said.

“How long ago did she go there?” Alistair asked.

“She should be there now,” Bruno said, checking his watch.

Alistair’s complexion drained of color. “I am deeply distressed to hear it. With the order of things so upset, who can say what dangers await her? We must try to intervene. Please, tell me your grandmother’s name. I will place the call immediately.”

Walking to a rotary telephone, he lifted the receiver and dialed. Within seconds he was explaining the situation to another party on the line. Alistair’s familiar manner gave Evangeline the impression that he had discussed the situation with the director on previous occasions. After he hung up, he said, “I am greatly relieved-there have been no unusual occurrences at the Cloisters this afternoon. Your grandmother may be there, but she has not been anywhere near the hiding place. Thankfully, there is still time. My contact will do everything in her power to find your grandmother and assist her.”

He then opened a closet door and slid into a heavy wool overcoat, adjusting a silk opera scarf about his neck. Following his lead, Evangeline and Bruno rose from the couch. “We must go now,” Alistair said, leading them to the door. “The members of your group are not safe-indeed, now that the recovery of the instrument has begun, none of us are safe.”

“We have planned to meet at Rockefeller Center at six,” Bruno said.

“Rockefeller Center is four blocks from here,” Alistair Carroll said. “I will accompany you. I believe I can be of some assistance.”

The Cloisters, Metropolitan Museum of Art, Fort Tryon Park, New York City

Verlaine and Gabriella stepped out of a taxi and ran up the pathway to the museum. A cluster of stonework buildings rose before them, ramparts lifting over the Hudson River beyond. Verlaine had visited the Cloisters many times in the past, finding its perfect likeness to a medieval monastery a source of solace and refuge from the intensity of the city. It was comforting to be in the presence of history, even if there was an air of fabrication to it all. He wondered what Gabriella would think of the museum, having had the real deal in Pans-the ancient frescoes, the crucifixes, the medieval statues that constituted the Cloisters’ collection had been put together in emulation of the Musée National du Moyen Age, a place he had only read about in books.

It was the height of the holiday season, and the museum would be filled with crowds of people out for an afternoon of quiet contemplation of medieval art. If they were being followed, as Verlaine suspected they were, such a crowd might shield them. He studied the limestone façade, the imposing central turret, the thick exterior wall, wondering if the creatures were hidden inside. He had no doubt that they were there, waiting for them.

As they hurried up the stone steps, Verlaine pondered the mission at hand. They had been sent to the museum without any notion of how to go about their search. He knew that Gabriella was good at what she did, and he trusted that she would find a way to bring them through their part of the mission, but it seemed a daunting task. With all his love of intellectual scavenger hunts, the immense difficulty of what lay before them was enough to make him want to turn around, find a cab, and go home.

At the arched entrance of the museum, a petite woman with glossy red hair hurried in their direction. She wore a fluid silk blouse and a strand of pearls that caught the light as she made her way to them. It seemed to Verlaine that she’d been stationed at the door waiting for their arrival, but he knew that this was impossible.

“Dr. Gabriella Valko?” she said. Verlaine recognized the accent as similar to Gabriella’s and deduced that the woman was French. “I am Sabine Clementine, associate director of restoration at the Cloisters. I have been sent to assist you in your endeavors this afternoon.”

“Sent?” Gabriella said, looking the woman over warily. “Sent by whom?”

“Alistair Carroll,” she whispered, gesturing for them to follow her. “Who works on behalf of the late Abigail Rockefeller. Come, please, I will explain as we walk.”

True to Verlaine’s predications, the entrance hall overflowed with people, cameras and guidebooks in hand. Patrons waited at a cash register in the museum’s bookstore, the line curling past tables stacked high with medieval histories, art books, studies of Gothic and Romanesque architecture. Through a narrow window, Verlaine caught another glimpse of the Hudson River, flowing below, dark and constant. Despite the danger, he felt his entire being relax: Museums had always had a soothing effect on him, which may have been-if he wanted to analyze himself-one of the reasons he chose art history as his field. The curatorial feel of the building itself, with its collection of disassembled medieval monasteries-façades, frescoes, and doorways taken from dilapidated structures in Spain, France, and Italy and reconstructed into a collage of ancient ruins-contributed to his growing ease, as did the tourists snapping photos, young couples walking hand in hand, retirees studying the delicate, washed colors of a fresco. His disdain for tourists, so pronounced just a day before, had transformed to gratitude for their presence.

They walked into the museum proper, through interconnected galleries, one room opening into the next. Although they didn’t have time to pause, Verlaine glanced at the artwork as they passed by, looking for something that might give a clue about what they’d come to the Cloisters to do. Perhaps a painting or piece of statuary would correspond with something in Abigail Rockefeller’s cards, although he doubted it. The Rockefeller drawings were too modern, a clear example of New York City Art Deco. Nevertheless, he examined an Anglo-Saxon archway, a sculpted crucifix, a glass mosaic, a set of acanthus-carved pillars-restored and cleaned to a polish. Any one of these masterpieces could hold the instrument within it.

Sabine Clementine brought them into an airy room, a wall of windows drenching the glazed wide-plank wooden floor with thick light. A series of tapestries hung on the walls. Verlaine recognized them at once. He had studied them in his Masterpieces of the World Art History course during his first year of graduate school and had encountered reproductions of them again and again in magazines and posters, although for some reason he hadn’t visited the tapestries in some time. Sabine Clementine had led them to the famous Hunt of the Unicorn tapestries.

“They’re beautiful,” Verlaine said, examining the rich reds and brilliant greens of the woven flora.

“And brutal,” Gabriella added, gesturing to the slaughter of the unicorn in which half of the hunting party looks on, placid and indifferent, as the other half drives spears into the helpless creature’s throat.

“This was the great difference between Abigail Rockefeller and her husband,” Verlaine said, gesturing to the panel before them. “While Abigail Rockefeller founded the Museum of Modern Art and spent her time buying up Picassos, van Goghs, and Kandinskys, her husband collected art from the medieval period. He detested modernism and refused to support his wife’s passion for it. He thought it profane. It’s funny how the past is so often judged sacred while the modern world is held in suspicion.”

“There is often good reason to be suspicious of modernity,” Gabriella said, glancing over her shoulder at the cluster of tourists, as if to ascertain whether they’d been followed.

“But without the benefits of progress,” Verlaine said, “we would still be stuck in the Dark Ages.”

“Dear Verlaine,” Gabriella said, taking him by the arm and stepping deeper into the gallery, “do you really believe we have left the Dark Ages behind?”

“Now,” Sabine Clementine said, stepping close to them so that she could speak softly, “my predecessor instructed me to memorize a clue, though I have never fully comprehended its purpose until now. Please. Listen closely.”

Gabriella turned to her, surprised, and Verlaine detected the slightest hint of condescension on Gabriella’s face as she listened to Sabine speak.

“‘The allegory of the hunt tells a tale within a tale,’ ” Sabine whispered. “‘Follow the creature’s course from freedom to captivity. Disavow the hounds, feign modesty at the maid, reject the brutality of slaughter, and seek music where the creature lives again. As a hand at the loom wove this mystery, so a hand must unravel it. Ex angelis-the instrument reveals itself.’”

“‘Ex angelis’?” Verlaine said, as if this were the only phrase of the clue to perplex him.

“It’s Latin,” Gabriella replied. “It means ‘from the angels.’ Clearly she is using the phrase to describe the angelic instrument-it was wrought by the angels-but it is an odd way to do so.” She paused to give Sabine Clementine a look of gratitude, acknowledging the legitimacy of her presence for the first time before continuing, “Actually, the initials E A were often imprinted on the seals of documents sent between angelologists in the Middle Ages, but the letters stood for Epistula Angelorum, or letter of angels, another thing entirely. Mrs. Rockefeller could not have possibly known that.”

“Is there anything else that might explain it?” Verlaine asked, leaning over Gabriella’s shoulder as she extracted Abby Rockefeller’s card from the case. She turned it over, looking at the reverse side.

“There is a drawing of some sort,” Gabriella said, rotating the card in an attempt to get a better view. There was a series of lightly sketched lines arranged by length, a number written next to each one. “And that explains exactly nothing.”

“So we have a map without a key,” Verlaine said.

“Perhaps,” Gabriella said, and asked Sabine to repeat the clue.

Sabine repeated it word for word.

“The allegory of the hunt tells a tale within a tale. Follow the creature’s course from freedom to captivity. Disavow the hounds, feign modesty at the maid, reject the brutality of slaughter, and seek music where the creature lives again. As a hand at the loom wove this mystery, so a hand must unravel it. Ex angelis-the instrument reveals itself.”

“Clearly she’s telling us to follow the order of the hunt, which begins in the first tapestry,” Verlaine said, stepping through clusters of people to the first panel. “Here a hunting party makes its way to the forest, where they discover a unicorn, chase it vigorously, and then kill it. The hounds-which Mrs. Rockefeller advises us to ignore-are part of the hunting party, and the maid-whom we should also bypass-must be one of the women hanging around watching. We’re supposed to ignore all that and look where the creature lives again. That,” Verlaine said, leading Gabriella by the arm to the last tapestry, “must be this one.”

They stood before the most famous of the tapestries, a lush green meadow filled with wildflowers. The unicorn reclined at the center of a circular fence, tamed.

Gabriella said, “This is most definitely the tapestry in which we should ‘seek music where the creature lives again.’ ”

“Although there doesn’t seem to be anything at all referring to music here,” Verlaine said.

“Ex angelis,” Gabriella said to herself, as if turning the phrase over in her mind.

“Mrs. Rockefeller never used Latin phrases in her letters to Innocenta,” Verlaine said. “It’s obvious that the use of it here has been meant to draw our attention.”

“Angels appear in nearly every piece of art in this place,” Gabriella said, clearly frustrated. “But there isn’t a single one here.”

“You’re right,” Verlaine agreed, studying the unicorn. “These tapestries are an anomaly. Although the hunt for the unicorn can be interpreted, as Mrs. Rockefeller mentioned, as an allegory-most obviously a retelling of Christ’s Crucifixion and Resurrection-it’s one of the few pieces here without overt Christian figures or images. No depictions of Christ, no images from the Old Testament, and no angels.”

“Notice,” Gabriella said, pointing to the corners of the tapestry, “how the letters A and E are woven everywhere throughout the scenes. They’re in each tapestry and always paired. They must have been the initials of the patron who commissioned the tapestries.”

“Perhaps,” Verlaine said, looking more closely at the letters and noticing that they had been stitched with golden thread. “But look: The letter E is turned backward in each instance. The letters have been inverted.”

“And if we flip them,” Gabriella said, “we have E A.”

“Ex angelis,” Verlaine said.

Verlaine stepped so close to the tapestry that he could see the intricate patterns of threads composing the fabric of the scene. The material smelled loamy, centuries of exposure to dust and air an inextricable part of it. Sabine Clementine, who had been standing quietly nearby, waiting to be of assistance, came to their side. “Come,” she said softly. “You are here for the tapestries. They are my specialty.”

Without waiting for a response, Sabine walked to the first panel. She said, “The Hunt of the Unicorn tapestries are the great masterpieces of the medieval era, seven panels woven of wool and silk. Together the panels depict a courtly hunting party-you can see for yourself the hounds, knights, maidens, and castles, framed by fountains and forests. The precise provenance of the tapestries remains something of a mystery, even after years of study, but art historians agree that the style points to Brussels around the year 1500. The first written documentation of the Unicorn Tapestries emerged in the seventeenth century, when the tapestries were cataloged as part of the estate of a noble French family. They were discovered and restored in the mid-nineteenth century. John D. Rockefeller Jr. paid over one million dollars for them in the 1920s. In my opinion it was a bargain. Many historians believe them to be the finest example of medieval art in the world.”

Verlaine gazed at the tapestry, drawn to its vibrant color and the unicorn that reclined at the center of the woven panel, a milk-white beast, its great horn raised.

“Tell me, mademoiselle,” Gabriella said, a hint of challenge in her voice, “have you come to help us or to give us a guided tour?”

“You will need a guide,” Sabine replied pointedly. “Do you see the block of stitches between the letters?” She gestured to the E A initials above the unicorn.

“It looks like there was pretty intensive restoration work,” Verlaine replied, as if the answer to Gabriella’s question were the most obvious one in the world. “It was damaged?”

“Extensively,” Sabine Clementine said. “The tapestries were looted during the French Revolution-stolen from a chateau and used for decades to cover peasants’ fruit trees from frost. Although the fabric has been lovingly, painstakingly restored, the damage is apparent if one looks closely.”

As Gabriella examined the tapestry, her thoughts appeared to take a new turn. She said, “Mrs. Rockefeller was given the enormous challenge of hiding the instrument, and according to the clue she gave as instructions, she indeed chose to hide it here, in the Cloisters.”

“It would seem that way,” Verlaine said, gazing at her expectantly.

“To accomplish this she would have needed to find a location that was well guarded and yet exposed, safe yet accessible, so that the instrument could eventually be recovered.” Gabriella took a deep breath and looked about the room-crowds had gathered in clusters before the tapestries. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “We can see firsthand that hiding something as unwieldy as a lyre-an instrument consisting of a large body and crossbars, which are generally of sizable proportions-in an intimate museum like the Cloisters would be almost impossible. And yet we know she has managed it.”

“Are you suggesting that the lyre isn’t really here?” Verlaine asked.

“No, that’s not what I’m saying at all,” Gabriella said. “It is exactly the opposite. I don’t think Abigail Rockefeller would send us on a wild-goose chase. I have been thinking over the dilemma of there being four locations for one instrument and have come to the conclusion that Abigail Rockefeller was extremely savvy about hiding the lyre. She found the safest locations, but she also put the lyre in its more secure form. I believe that the instrument may not be in the form we expect.”

“Now you’ve lost me,” Verlaine said.

Sabine said, “As any angelologist who has spent a semester in Ethereal Musicology, the History of the Angelic Choruses, or any of the other seminars that focus upon the construction and implementation of the instruments would know, there is one essential component to the lyre: the strings. While many other heavenly instruments were fashioned from the precious celestial metal known as Valkine, the lyre’s unique resonance arises from its strings. They were made of an unidentifiable substance that angelologists have long believed to be a mixture of silk and strands of the angels’ own hair. Whatever the material, the sound is extraordinary because of the substance of the strings and the way they are stretched. The frame is, for all intents and purposes, interchangeable.”

“You have attended the academy in Paris,” Gabriella said, impressed.

“Bien sûr, Dr. Valko,” Sabine said, smiling slightly. “How else would I be entrusted with such a position as this? You may not recall, but I attended your Introduction to Spiritual Warfare Seminar.”

“What year?” Gabriella asked, studying Sabine, attempting to recognize her.

“The first term of 1987,” Sabine responded.

“My last year at the academy,” Gabriella said.

“It was my favorite course.”

“I am very glad to hear it,” Gabriella said. “And now you can repay me by helping me solve a puzzle: ‘As a hand at the loom wove this mystery, so a hand must unravel it.’ ” Gabriella watched Sabine as she repeated the line from Mrs. Rockefeller’s letter, searching for a spark of recognition.

“I am here to assist in the unraveling,” Sabine said. “And I now know what it is that I’m meant to free from the tapestry.”

“Mrs. Rockefeller wove the strings into this tapestry?” Verlaine said.

“Actually,” Sabine replied, “she hired a very adept professional to do the work for her. But yes, they are there, inside the Unicorn in Captivity tapestry.”

Verlaine stared at the weave skeptically. “How in the hell will we get them out?”

Nonplussed, Sabine said, “If I am informed correctly, the procedure was skillfully performed and will leave no damage whatsoever.”

“It is odd that Abby Rockefeller would choose such a delicate piece of art as a shield,” Gabriella noted.

Sabine said, “You must remember that once upon a time these tapestries were the private property of the Rockefellers. They hung in Abigail Rockefeller’s living room from 1922, when her husband bought them, until the late 1930s, when they were brought here. Mrs. Rockefeller had a very intimate knowledge of the tapestries, including their weak spots.” Sabine pointed at a heavily repaired patch on the weave. “See how it is irregular? One snip of the repair thread and it will open in a seam.”

A museum security guard stationed at the far side of the room walked casually over to them. “Are you ready for us, Ms. Clementine?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you,” Sabine responded, her manner becoming crisp and professional. “But we will need to clear the gallery first. Please call in the others.” Sabine turned to Gabriella and Verlaine. “I have arranged to block off the area for the duration of the procedure. We will need complete freedom to work on the tapestry, a task that would be impossible in such a crowd.”

“You can do that?” Verlaine asked, looking at the congested hall.

“Of course,” Sabine said. “I am the associate director of restorations. I can arrange repairs as I see fit.”

“What about that?” Verlaine asked, nodding to the security camera.

“I have taken care of everything, monsieur.”

Verlaine gazed at the tapestry, realizing that they had very little time to locate the strings and remove them. As he’d originally suspected, the repaired fabric above the unicorn’s horn, located in the upper third of the tapestry, contained the largest defect. It was high off the floor, perhaps six feet. One would have to stand upon a chair or a stool to reach it. The angle wouldn’t be ideal. There was every possibility that the seam would be too difficult to open and that it would be necessary to remove the tapestry from the wall, spread it flat on the floor, and work it open there. This, however, would be the last resort.

A number of security guards entered the gallery and began directing people from the room. Once the space had been cleared, the guards stood watch at the door.

With the gallery emptied, Sabine escorted a short, bald man past the guards and to the tapestry, where he placed a metal case on the floor and unfolded a stepladder. Without so much as a glance at Gabriella or Verlaine, he climbed the stepladder and began to examine the seam.

“The glass, Ms. Clementine,” the man said.

Sabine opened the case, revealing a row of scalpels, threads, scissors, and a great magnifying glass, the last of which collected a bright swirl of light from the room and condensed it into a single ball of fire.

Verlaine watched as the man worked, fascinated by his confidence. He had often wondered at the skills of restoration and had even been to an exhibit that demonstrated the chemical processes used to clean fabrics such as these. Holding the magnifying glass in one hand and a scalpel in the other, the man worked the tip of the blade into a row of tight, neat stitches. With the slightest pressure, the stitches split apart. He opened one stitch after another in this fashion until a hole the size of an apple appeared in the tapestry. The man continued his work with the concentration of a surgeon.

Standing on tiptoes, Verlaine peered up at the unbound fabric. He could see nothing but a fray of colored threads, fine as hair. The man requested a tool from the case, and Sabine handed him a long, thin hook, which he inserted into the hole in the fabric. Then he slipped his hand directly between the A and the E. He tugged, and a bright spark caught Verlaine’s eye: Twisted about the hook, there was an opalescent cord.

Verlaine counted them as the man handed him the strings. They were capillary-thin and so smooth that they slid between Verlaine’s fingers as if waxed. Five, seven, ten strings, limp and sumptuous, draped over his arm. The man climbed down the ladder. “That is all,” he said, a look of sobriety upon his face, as if he had just desecrated a shrine.

Sabine took the strings, rolled them into a tight coil, and zipped them into a cloth pouch. Pressing it into Verlaine’s palm, she said, “Follow me, madame, monsieur,” and led Gabriella and Verlaine to the entrance of the gallery.

“Do you know how to attach them?” Sabine asked.

Gabriella said, “I will manage, I’m sure.”

“Yes, of course,” Sabine said, and with a snap of her finger the security guards collected around them, three on each side. “Be careful,” Sabine said, kissing Gabriella on each cheek in the Parisian manner. “Good luck.”

As the security guards escorted Gabriella and Verlaine through the museum, pushing past the ever-present crowd, it seemed to Verlaine that the studies he had undertaken, the frustrations and fruitless searches of academic life-somehow, all of it had delivered him to this moment of triumph. Gabriella walked at his side, the woman who had brought him to understand his calling as an angelologist and his future-if he dared to hope-with Evangeline. They passed under archway after archway, the heavy Romanesque architecture yielding to the light trelliswork of the Gothic, the pouch containing the strings of the lyre held tightly in his hand.

Riverside Church, Morningside Heights, New York City

Riverside Church was an imposing Gothic Revival cathedral rising above Columbia University. Together Vladimir and Saitou-san mounted the steps to a wooden door adorned with disks of iron, Saitou-san’s high-heeled boots crunching upon the salt-strewn ice, a black shawl wrapped snugly about her shoulders.

As they walked inside, the light diminished to a honeyed glow. Vladimir blinked, his eyes readjusting to the ambience of the foyer. The church was empty. Straightening his tie, Vladimir walked past an alcove with an empty reception desk, up a set of steps, and into a large antechamber. The walls were creamy stone that rose to a confluence of jointed arches, one meeting another like wind-filled sails hoisted in a crowded harbor. Beyond, through a set of wide double doors, Vladimir ascertained the deepening hollow of the church nave.

His first impulse was to search the church, but he held back, his attention drawn to two copper plaques hung on a wall. The first commemorated John D. Rockefeller Jr.’s generosity in the building of the church. A second plaque was a dedication to Laura Celestia Spelman Rockefeller.

“Laura Celestia Spelman was Abigail Rockefeller’s mother-in-law,” Saitou-san whispered, reading the plaque.

Vladimir said, “I believe the Rockefellers were devout, especially the Cleveland generation. John D. Rockefeller Jr. paid for the construction of this church.”

“That would explain Mrs. Rockefeller’s access,” Saitou-san said. “It would be impossible to keep anything here without inside help.”

“Inside help,” a whining, high-pitched voice said, “and a lot of cash.”

Vladimir turned to find that a toadlike old man in an elegant gray suit and neatly combed gray hair had appeared in the hallway. A monocle encircled his left eye, its gold chain hanging over his cheek. Vladimir stepped back instinctively.

“Forgive me for startling you,” the man said. “My name is Mr. Gray, and I could not help but notice you here.” Mr. Gray appeared to be half blind with anxiety. His eyes bulged wildly as he looked about the hallway, his gaze settling at last upon Vladimir and Saitou-san.

“I would ask who you are,” Mr. Gray said, pointing to Abigail Rockefeller’s card in Vladimir’s hand. “But I know already. May I?” Mr. Gray took the card from Vladimir, looked it over carefully, and said, “I have seen this before. In fact, I helped arrange for the printing of these cards when I worked as Mrs. Rockefeller’s errand boy. I was merely fourteen. I once overheard her say that she liked my obsequious manner, which I tend to believe was a compliment. She had me running her errands-downtown for paper, uptown to the printers, downtown to pay the artist.”

“Then perhaps you will tell us the meaning of the card?” Saitou-san said.

“She believed,” Mr. Gray said, ignoring Saitou-san, “that angelologists would be coming.”

“And we have arrived,” Vladimir said. “Can you tell us how we’re meant to proceed?”

“I will answer your questions directly,” Mr. Gray said. “But we must first go to my office, where we might speak with more ease.”

They descended a stone staircase off the antechamber, Mr. Gray moving downward at a rapid pace, skipping steps in his haste. At the bottom a darkened hallway opened before them. Mr. Gray threw open a door and ushered them into a narrow office piled high with papers. Stacks of unopened mail tipped from the edge of a metal desk. Curled pencil shavings were scattered across the floor. A wall calendar from the year 1978 hung next to a filing cabinet, the month of December left open.

Once they were inside the office, Mr. Gray’s manner became one of indignation. “Well! You have certainly taken your own sweet time in coming,” he said. “I was beginning to think there was some misunderstanding. Mrs. Rockefeller would have been furious at that-she would turn in her grave if I’d died without delivering the package in the fashion she wished. An exacting woman, Mrs. Rockefeller, but very generous-my children and my children’s children will feel the benefit of the arrangement, even if I, who have been waiting half of my life for your arrival, will not! I was but a young man when she hired me to oversee the workings of the church office-fresh from England, without a position in the world. Mrs. Rockefeller gave me my place here in this office, instructing me to await your arrival, which I have done, ceaselessly. Of course, provisions were made should I have expired before your arrival-which I must say could have happened any day now, since clearly I’m not growing any younger-but let’s not allow ourselves to ponder such morbid thoughts, no, sir. At this important hour, it is only the wishes of our benefactress that must concern us, and her thoughts turned upon a single solemn hope: the future.” Mr. Gray blinked and adjusted his monocle. “Come, let’s get down to business.”

“An excellent idea,” Vladimir said.

Mr. Gray went to the filing cabinet, pulled a ring of keys from his pocket, and proceeded to work through the number until he discovered the match. With a turn of the key, the cabinet drawer popped open. “Let me see,” he said, straining to see the files. “Ah, yes, here! The very documents we need.” He flipped through the pages, stopping at a long list of names. “This is a formality, of course, but Mrs. Rockefeller specified that only those appearing on this list-or the descendants of these persons-would be authorized to receive the package. Is your name, or the name of one of your parents or grandparents, or indeed your great-grandparents, among this number?”

Vladimir scanned the list, recognizing all the major angelologists of the twentieth century. He found his own name in the middle of the final row, next to Celestine Clochette’s.

“If you don’t mind, you will sign here and here. And then once more here, on this line at the bottom.”

Vladimir examined the paper, a long legal document that, from a cursory view, affirmed that Mr. Gray had performed the task of delivering the object.

“You see,” Mr. Gray said by way of apology, “I receive my remuneration only after the delivery has been performed, as evidenced by your signature. The legal document is quite specific, and the lawyers are unrelenting-it has been inconvenient, as you might imagine, living without recompense for my labors. All these years I have scraped by, waiting for you to arrive so that I might retire from this wretched office. And here you are,” Mr. Gray said, giving Vladimir a pen. “Simply a formality, mind you.”

“Before I sign,” Vladimir said, pushing the document away, “I must have the object you’re holding for me.”

An almost imperceptible chill hardened upon Mr. Gray’s features. “Of course,” he said tersely. He slipped the contract under his arm and tucked the pen into the pocket of his gray suit. “Just this way,” he said, his voice clipped as he led them out of the office and up the stairs.

As they returned to the upper level of the church, Vladimir hung back, shadowed in the recesses of the hall. His study of ethereal musicology had consumed his youth, driving him deeper and deeper into the closed world of angelological work. After the war he’d left the discipline. He had run a humble bakery, making confections and cakes, the simplicity of which gave him comfort. He had believed that his work was futile, that there was little humanity could do to stop the Nephilim. He returned only after Gabriella had come to him herself, pleading with him to join their efforts. She had said that they needed him. At the time he’d been doubtful, but Gabriella could be quite persuasive, and he could see the dark changes that had begun to occur. He could not say how he knew-perhaps it was the rigorous training of his youth or perhaps simple intuition-but Vladimir understood that Mr. Gray was not to be trusted.

Mr. Gray walked haltingly up the central aisle of the nave, bringing Vladimir and Saitou-san into the cool dark church. The scent was instantly familiar to Vladimir, the mossy fragrance of incense filling the air. Despite innumerable stained-glass windows, the space remained dark, nearly impenetrable. Above, Gothic candelabras hung by thick ropes, oxidized-iron wheels of intricate fretwork topped with candles. A massive Gothic pulpit, ring after ring of sculpted figures climbing the sides, rose at the altar, while Christmas poinsettias, bright red ribbons tied about their pots, stood on pedestals throughout the church. Separated from the nave by a thick maroon cord, the apse lay in shadows before them.

Mr. Gray unclipped the velvet rope and dropped it to the floor, the buckle echoing through the nave. Worked into the marble floor was a stonework labyrinth. Mr. Gray tapped his toe upon it, nervous, creating a frantic rhythm. “Mrs. Rockefeller placed it here,” Mr. Gray said, sliding his shoe over the chancel. “At the center of the labyrinth.”

Vladimir walked the length of the pattern, examining the lay of the stones with care-it seemed impossible that anything could be hidden in it. It would have required breaking the stones, something he could not imagine that Mrs. Rockefeller, or anyone else involved in the care and preservation of art, would condone. “But how?” Vladimir asked. “It looks perfectly smooth.”

“Ah, yes,” Mr. Gray said, moving to Vladimir’s side. “That is simply an illusion. Come, look closely.”

Vladimir squatted to the floor and examined the marble. A thin, fine seam had been cut along the border of the central stone. “It is practically invisible,” Vladimir said.

“Step away,” Mr. Gray said. Positioning himself over the stone, he applied pressure to its center. The stone lifted from the floor as if on springs. With a twist of his hand, Mr. Gray removed the central stone of the labyrinth.

“Amazing,” Saitou-san said, watching over his shoulder.

“There is nothing a fine stonemason and an abundance of funds cannot achieve,” Mr. Gray said. “You were acquainted with the late Mrs. Rockefeller?”

“No,” Vladimir said. “Not personally.”

“Ah, well, a pity,” Mr. Gray said. “She had a keen sense of social justice marked with the folly of a poetic nature-a combination quite rare in women of her stature. Originally she designated that when angelologists arrived to claim the object under my care, I was to lead whoever came here to the labyrinth and ask for a series of numbers. Mrs. Rockefeller assured me that whoever came would know these numbers. I have them memorized, of course.”

“Numbers?” Vladimir said, baffled by this unexpected test.

“Numbers, sir.” Mr. Gray gestured to the center of the labyrinth. Below the stone there was a safe, a combination lock at its center. “You will need numbers to open this. I suppose you might think of yourself as the Minotaur making your way into the stone labyrinth.” He smiled, enjoying the bafflement he had caused.

Vladimir stared at the safe, its door perfectly flush with the floor beneath the labyrinth as Saitou-san bent over it. Saitou-san said, “How many numbers in each combination?”

“That, I cannot tell you,” Mr. Gray said.

Saitou-san turned each of the dials in succession. “Abigail Rockefeller’s cards were made specifically for Innocenta to decode,” she said, speaking slowly, as if searching her thoughts. “Innocenta’s responses affirmed that she had counted the lyre strings on the cards and had-I assume-written down the numbers.”

“The sequence,” Vladimir said, “was twenty-eight, thirty, thirty-eight, and thirty-nine.”

Saitou-san turned each of the four dials to correspond with the numbers and pulled at the safe. It didn’t open.

“This is the only sequence of numbers we have,” Saitou-san said. “They must work in some combination.”

“Four numbers and four dials,” Vladimir said. “That makes twenty-four different possible combinations. There is no way we can try all of them. There isn’t time.”

“Unless,” Saitou-san said, “there was a designated order to the numbers. Do you remember the chronology in which they were given? Verlaine told us the sequence in which numbers appeared on the cards.”

Vladimir thought for a moment. “Twenty-eight, thirty-eight, thirty, and finally thirty-nine.”

Saitou-san moved each dial, aligning the numbers carefully. Wrapping her finger around a metal lever, she pulled the handle of the safe. It lifted without resistance, exhaling a soft gush of air. Reaching into the cavity, she withdrew a heavy bundle of green velvet and unwrapped it. The sound chest of the lyre threw waves of golden illumination over the stone labyrinth.

“It is lovely,” Saitou-san said, turning it to examine it from all angles. The base was round. Two identical arms bowed out and then curled, like the horns of a bull. The golden surfaces were smooth and polished to a gleam. “But there are no strings.”

“Nor is there a yoke,” Vladimir said. He knelt by Saitou-san’s side and looked at the instrument cradled in her hands. “It is just one piece of the lyre. A most important piece, but alone it is useless. This must be why we were sent to four locations. The pieces have been scattered.”

“We need to tell the others,” Saitou-san said, carefully returning the lyre’s body to the velvet bag. “They need to know what they are looking for.”

Vladimir turned and faced Mr. Gray, who stood trembling between them. “You didn’t know the combination. You’ve been waiting for us to come and give it to you. If you had known, you would have taken it yourself.”

“There is no need to worry about what I know or do not know,” Mr. Gray said, his face growing red from perspiration. “The treasure belongs to neither of us.”

“What do you mean?” Saitou-san asked, incredulous.

“His meaning,” said a voice at the far end of the apse, a familiar voice that sent chills of terror through Vladimir, “is that the game has been over for many years. It is a game that the angelologists have lost”

In his fright Mr. Gray’s monocle fell from his eye, and without a moment of hesitation, he scurried from the apse and into a side aisle of the nave, the fabric of his gray suit appearing and disappearing as he traversed puddles of light and shadow. Watching Mr. Gray flee, Vladimir made out bands of Gibborish creatures along the aisles of the church, their white hair and red wings visible in the dull light. The creatures turned to watch as Mr. Gray passed, avid as sunflowers to the movement of the sun. Before he could escape, however, a Gibborim seized Mr. Gray. As Vladimir watched, all doubt cleared about the nature of the meeting: The angelologists had fallen into a trap. Percival Grigori had been waiting for them.

The last time Vladimir had met Grigori was many decades before, when Vladimir was a young protégé of Raphael Valko. He had seen firsthand the atrocities the Grigori family had perpetrated during the war. He had also witnessed the great pain they’d inflicted upon angelologists-Seraphina Valko had lost her life because of Percival Grigori’s machinations, and Gabriella had come close to dying as well. Back then Percival Grigori had cut a startling, fearsome figure. Now he was a sickly mutant.

Grigori gestured and the Gibborim brought Mr. Gray forward.

Without warning, Grigori cracked the ivory head of his cane from the shaft, twisting the steel blade of a dagger from its mooring. For a second the knife glinted in the weak light. Then, in one swift movement, Grigori stepped forward and plunged the dagger into Mr. Gray’s body. Gray’s expression changed from surprise to disbelief and then to wilting, disconsolate anguish. As Percival Grigori withdrew the knife, Mr. Gray collapsed to the floor, whimpering softly, blood collecting about him. In a matter of moments, his eyes held the watery gaze of death. As swiftly as he’d unsheathed the knife, Percival wiped it clean on a white square of silk and inserted it back into the shaft of the cane.

Vladimir saw that Saitou-san had edged away from him with the sound chest in hand, slinking silently toward the rear of the church. By the time Percival noticed, she was within reach of the door. Percival lifted his hand and ordered the Gibborim after her. Half of the creatures turned upon her, while the remaining Gibborim stepped forward, the hems of their robes brushing against the floor as they surrounded the apse. With a second gesture, Percival instructed these creatures to take hold of Vladimir.

Clutched tightly in their grasp, Vladimir inhaled the scent of the creatures’ skin; he felt the chill of their bodies behind him. A cool gust of air swept the nape of his neck as the creatures beat their wings, steadily, rhythmically.

“She will take the lyre to Gabriella!” Vladimir cried, struggling against the hold of the creatures.

Percival looked upon Vladimir with contempt. “I was hoping to see my dear Gabriella. I know that she is behind this little recovery mission. She has become quite elusive over the years.”

Vladimir closed his eyes. He recalled that Gabriella’s infiltration into the Grigori family had been a sensation in the angelological community, the largest, most influential undercover job of the 1940s. Indeed, her work had paved the way for modern surveillance of the Nephilistic families and brought them useful information. But it had created a dangerous legacy for all of them. After so many years, Percival Grigori still wanted revenge.

Leaning heavily upon his cane, Grigori hobbled to Vladimir. “Tell me,” he said. “Where is she?”

Percival leaned close to Vladimir, so that he could see the purple pouches under Percival’s eyes, thick as bruises on his white skin. His teeth were perfectly even, so white they seemed plated in pearl. And yet Percival was aging-a net of fine lines had developed about his mouth. He must have reached at least three hundred years.

“I remember you,” Percival said, narrowing his eyes as if comparing the man before him with one in his memory. “You were in my presence in Paris. I recall your face, although time has changed you almost beyond recognition. You helped Gabriella to deceive me.”

“And you,” Vladimir said, recovering his equilibrium, “betrayed everything you believed in-your family, your ancestors. Even now you haven’t forgotten her. Tell me: How badly do you miss Gabriella Lévi-Franche?”

“Where is she?” Percival said, staring into Vladimir’s eyes.

“That I will never tell you,” Vladimir said, his voice catching as he spoke. He knew that with those words he had chosen to die.

Percival released the ivory-headed cane from his grip. It fell to the floor, sending a sharp echo through the church. He placed his long, cold fingers upon Vladimir’s chest, as if to feel his heartbeat. An electrical vibration surged through Vladimir, shattering his ability to think. In the last minutes of his life, his lungs burning for air, Vladimir was drawn into the horrifying translucency of his killer’s eyes. They were pale and ringed with red, intense as a chemical fire stabilized in a frozen atmosphere.

As Vladimir’s consciousness dissolved, he remembered the delicious sensation of the lyre’s body, heavy and cool in his hands, and how he had longed to hear its ethereal melody.

Rockefeller Center Ice Skating Rink, Fifth Avenue, New York City

Evangeline glanced at the rink, following the skaters’ slow, circular progress. Colored lights fell upon the glossy surface of the ice, skittering under blades and disappearing in the shadows. In the distance a tremendous Christmas tree rose against a solid gray building, its red and silver lights glinting like a million fireflies captured in a glass cone. Rows of majestic herald angels, their wings delicate and white as lily petals, stood below the tree like a legion of sentries, their wire bodies illuminated, their elongated brass trumpets raised in choral praise to the heavens. The shops along the concourse-bookstores and clothing stores, stationery shops and chocolatiers-had begun to close, sending customers into the night with gifts and shopping bags tucked under their arms.

Pulling her overcoat close, Evangeline wrapped herself in a cocoon of warmth. She cradled the cold metal casket-the crossbars of the lyre tucked safely inside-in her hands. At her side, Bruno Bechstein and Alistair Carroll scanned the masses beyond the rink. Hundreds and hundreds of people filled the plaza. “White Christmas” played through a tiny overhead speaker, its melody punctuated by laughter from the skating rink. Fifteen minutes remained until the designated meeting time, and the others were nowhere to be found. The air was crisp, smelling of snow. Evangeline inhaled, and a fit of coughing overtook her. Her lungs were so tight she could hardly breathe. What had begun as simple discomfort in her chest had grown in the past hours to a full-blown hack. Each breath she took felt labored, giving her only the slightest bit of air.

Alistair Carroll removed his scarf and placed it gently around Evangeline’s collar. “You are freezing, my dear,” he said. “Protect yourself from this wind.”

“I’ve hardly noticed it,” Evangeline said, drawing the thick, soft wool about her neck. “I’m too worried to feel anything. The others should be here by now.”

“It was at this time of year that we came to Rockefeller Center with the fourth piece of the lyre,” Alistair said. “Christmas 1944. I drove Abby here in the middle of the night and helped her through a terrible storm. Luckily, she had the foresight to call the security personnel herself, informing them that we would be coming. Their assistance proved most useful.”

“So you are aware of what is hidden here?” Bruno said. “You’ve seen it?”

“Oh, yes,” Alistair said. “I packed the tuning pegs of the lyre into the protective case myself. It was quite an ordeal, finding a case that would allow us to hide the pegs here, but Abby was certain that this was the best place. I carried the case in my own hands and assisted Mrs. Rockefeller in locking it away. The pegs are tiny, and so the case is merely the weight of a pocket-watch without its fob. It is so very compact that one cannot conceive that it could hold something so essential to the instrument. But it is a fact: The lyre will not produce a note without the pegs.”

Evangeline tried to imagine the small knobs, envisioning how they fit onto the crossbar. “Do you know how to reassemble it?” Evangeline asked.

“Like all things, there is an order one must follow,” Alistair said. “Once the crossbar is fitted into the arms of the lyre’s base, the strings must be wound about the tuning pegs, each at a certain tension. The difficulty, I believe, is in the tuning of the lyre, a skill that requires a trained ear.”

Directing their attention to the angels collected before the Christmas tree, he added, “I assure you that the lyre looks nothing at all like the stereotypical instruments held by the herald angels. The wire angels at the base of the Christmas tree were introduced to Rockefeller Center in 1954, one year after Philip Johnson completed the Abby Aldrich Rockefeller Sculpture Garden and ten years after the treasure’s interment here. Although these lovely creatures’ appearance here was purely coincidental-Mrs. Rockefeller had passed away by then, and nobody, save myself, knew about what had been hidden here-I find the symbolism rather exquisite. It is fitting, this collection of heralds, wouldn’t you say? One feels it the moment one enters the plaza at Christmastime: Here is the treasure of the angels, waiting to be uncovered.”

“The case was not placed near the Christmas tree?” Evangeline asked.

“Not at all,” Alistair replied, gesturing to the statue at the far end of the skating rink, where the statue of Prometheus rose above the rink, its smooth gilded-bronze surface wrapped in light. “The case is part of the Prometheus statue. There it lies, in its gilded prison.”

Evangeline studied the sculpture of Prometheus. It was a soaring figure that appeared to be caught in midair. The fire stolen from the hearth of the gods blazed in his tapering fingers, and a bronze ring of the zodiac encircled his feet. Evangeline knew the myth of Prometheus well. After stealing fire from the gods, Prometheus was punished by Zeus, who bound him to a rock and sent an eagle to peck at his body for eternity. Prometheus’s punishment was equated with his crime: The gift of fire marked the beginning of human innovation and technology, harkening the gods’ growing irrelevance.

“I have never seen the statue up close,” Evangeline said. In the light of the skating rink, the skin of the sculpture appeared molten. Prometheus and the fire he’d stolen were one incendiary entity.

“It is no masterpiece,” Alistair said. “Nevertheless, it suits Rockefeller Center perfectly. Paul Manship was a friend of the Rockefeller family’s-they knew his work well and commissioned him to create the sculpture. There is more than a passing reference to my former employers in the myth of Prometheus-their ingenuity and ruthlessness, their trickery, their dominance. Manship knew that these references would not be lost on John D. Rockefeller Jr., who had used all his influence to build Rockefeller Center during the Great Depression.”

“Nor are they lost on us,” Gabriella said, surprising Evangeline as she appeared among them, Verlaine at her side. “Prometheus holds fire in his hands, but thanks to Mrs. Rockefeller he holds something even more important as well.”

“Gabriella,” Evangeline said. Relief overcame her as she hugged her grandmother. Only then, feeling Gabriella’s frail embrace, did she realize how worried she’d been.

“You have the other pieces of the lyre?” Gabriella said, impatient. “Show them to me.”

Evangeline opened the casket holding the crossbar, showing her grandmother the contents. Gabriella unfastened the leather case, where she had kept the cloth pouch containing the lyre’s strings, the plectrum, and the angelological notebook, then set the casket inside. Only after collecting the pieces of the instruments in the case and making sure that it was securely closed did Gabriella notice Alistair Carroll standing at the periphery of the group. She examined him warily until Evangeline introduced him, explaining his relationship with Mrs. Rockefeller and the assistance he had offered them.

“Do you know how to remove the pegs from the statue?” Gabriella inquired, her manner one of intense purpose, as if a lifetime of expertise had been distilled into this one moment. “You know where they have been hidden?”

“The precise location, madam,” Alistair said. “It has been etched upon my mind for half a century.”

“Where are Vladimir and Saitou-san?” Bruno asked, suddenly realizing that they were missing two angelologists.

Verlaine checked his watch. He stood so close to Evangeline that she could read the time. It was 6:13.

“They should be here by now,” Evangeline said.

Bruno looked at the Prometheus statue glinting at the far end of the skating rink. “We can’t wait much longer.”

“We can’t wait another second,” Gabriella said. “It is too dangerous to expose ourselves in this fashion.”

“Were you followed?” Alistair asked, clearly alarmed by Gabriella’s anxious manner.

“Gabriella believes we were,” Verlaine said, “although we were fortunate enough to complete our work at the Cloisters without trouble.”

“This was part of their plan,” Gabriella said, scanning the crowd as if she might find the enemy lurking in the mass of shoppers. “We left the Cloisters unmolested because they chose to let us do so. We can’t wait another moment. Vladimir and Saitou-san will be here soon enough.”

“In that case let us proceed immediately,” Alistair said, displaying a calm Evangeline found admirable, reminding her of the stalwart sisters of St. Rose Convent she’d left behind.

Alistair led them along the edge of the plaza and down a concrete stairway to the rink. Walking alongside the plastic wall bordering the ice, they made their way toward the statue. The GE Building soared before them, its great facade broken by a row of flags-American, British, French, Portuguese, German, Dutch, Spanish, Japanese, Italian, Chinese, Greek, Brazilian, Korean-the unrelenting wind lifting them into the air in whorls of color. Perhaps the years of isolation at St. Rose had made Evangeline sensitive to crowds-she found herself examining the people gathering around the rink. There were teenagers in tight jeans and ski jackets; there were parents with little children; there were young lovers and middle-aged couples, all skating around and around one another. The crowd made her see how far away from the world she had lived.

Suddenly she spotted a dark-cloaked figure not five feet from her. Tall, pale-skinned, with great red eyes, the creature stared intently at her, a menacing expression on its face. Evangeline turned in all directions, panic coursing through her. Gibborim had mixed within the crowd, each tall, dark figure standing in silent attention.

Evangeline grasped Verlaine’s hand and drew him closer. “Look,” she whispered. “They’re here.”

“You have to leave,” he said, meeting her eye. “Now, before we’re trapped.”

“I think it’s too late for that,” Evangeline said, glancing around them, her terror growing. The number of Gibborim had multiplied. “They are everywhere.”

“Come with me,” he said, pulling her away from the cluster of angelologists. “We can leave together.”

“Not now,” Evangeline said, leaning close so that only he could hear her. “We have to help Gabriella.”

“But what if we fail?” Verlaine said. “What if something happens to you?”

She smiled slightly and said, “You know, you are the only person in the world who knows my favorite place. Someday I’d like to go there with you.

Evangeline heard her name and they both turned. Gabriella was beckoning to them.

As they joined the angelologists, Alistair was examining the crowd. His expression solidified into one of horror. Evangeline followed his gaze to the end of the skating rink, where a cluster of the stark white creatures, their wings carefully hidden under long black cloaks, had gathered at the statue of Prometheus. In the middle of it all stood a tall, elegant man leaning heavily upon a cane.

“Who is that?” Evangeline asked, pointing to the man.

“That,” Gabriella said, “is Percival Grigori.”

Evangeline recognized his name at once. This was Verlaine’s client, Percival Grigori of the infamous Grigori family. This was also the man who had killed her mother. She watched him from a distance, transfixed by the terrible spectacle. She’d never met him before, but Percival Grigori had destroyed her family.

Gabriella said, “Your mother looked very like him. Her height, her coloring, and her big blue eyes. I was always worried that she was too much like him.” Her voice was so quiet that Evangeline could hardly hear her. “It terrified me how Nephilistic my Angela appeared. My biggest fear was that she would grow to be like him.”

Before Evangeline could respond to this cryptic message-and the horrifying implications it foretold-Grigon raised a hand and the creatures embedded in the crowd stepped forward. They were more numerous than Evangeline had initially thought-row upon row of black-cloaked figures, pale and skeletal, appeared from nowhere, as if they had materialized out of the cold, dry evening air. Evangeline watched, awestruck, as they pushed toward her. Soon the periphery of the ice darkened with a nimbus of creatures. A collective consternation appeared to immobilize the skaters as the Gibborim encroached. They left off from their hypnotic circling and looked askance at the growing population looming around them, pausing to examine the strange figures with curiosity rather than fear. Children pointed to them in wonder, while adults, perhaps inured by the everyday spectacles of the city, endeavored to ignore the strange events entirely. Then, in one swift motion, the Gibborim swarmed the railings of the plaza. The collective trance of immobility shattered in an instant. Masses of frightened people were suddenly surrounded on all sides. The angelologists were caught at the center of an elaborate net.

Evangeline heard someone call her grandmother’s name and turned to find Saitou-san making her way through the throng. Evangeline knew instantly that something terrible must have happened at Riverside Church. Saitou-san had been injured. Cuts covered her face, and her jacket was ripped. Worst of all, she was alone.

“Where is Vladimir?” Gabriella asked, looking over Saitou-san with concern.

“He isn’t here yet?” Saitou-san asked, out of breath. “We were separated at Riverside Church. Gibborim were there, with Grigori. I don’t know how they would know to come here, unless Vladimir told them.”

“You left him?” Gabriella asked.

“I ran. I had no choice.” Saitou-san pulled out a velvet bundle that had been hidden inside her coat and cradled an object against her body as if it were a baby. “It was the only way to get out with this.”

“The base of the lyre,” Gabriella said, taking it from Saitou-san. “You found it.”

“Yes,” Saitou-san said. “Did you recover the other pieces?”

“All but the tuning pegs,” Evangeline said. “Which are there, in the middle of the Gibborim.”

Saitou-san and Gabriella gazed at the skating rink, which had become filled with Gibborim.

Calling Bruno to them, Gabriella spoke to him in a low, commanding voice. Try as she might, Evangeline could not make out her grandmother’s words, only the urgency with which they were uttered. Finally Gabriella took Evangeline by the arm. “Go with Bruno,” she said, placing the leather case containing the pieces of the instrument in Evangeline’s hands. “Do exactly as he tells you. You must take these as far from here as you can. If all goes well, I will be with you soon.”

The contours of the skating rink wavered at the edges of Evangeline’s vision as her eyes filled with tears-somehow, despite her grandmother’s assurance to the contrary, she felt that she would not see Gabriella again. Perhaps Gabriella understood her thoughts. She opened her arms and took Evangeline into them, hugging her tightly. Kissing her lightly upon the cheek, Gabriella whispered, “Angelology is not simply an occupation. It is a calling. Your work is just beginning, my dear Evangeline. Already you are everything I hoped you would be.”

Without another word, Gabriella followed Alistair through the crowd. Making their way alongside the ice rink, they disappeared into the chaotic crush of movement and noise.

Bruno took Verlaine and Evangeline by the arms and guided them up the concrete steps to the main plaza, Saitou-san following close behind. They did not stop until they were standing among the rows of flags behind the statue of Prometheus. From above, Evangeline saw the danger Gabriella and Alistair were in: The skating rink had become a solid swarm of creatures, a horrifying congregation that stopped Evangeline cold.

“What are they doing?” Verlaine asked.

“They are walking into the center of the Gibborim,” Saitou-san said.

“We have to help them,” Evangeline said.

“Gabriella was clear about what we should do,” Bruno said, although the worry in his voice and the deep furrows lining his brow belied his words. It was obvious that Gabriella’s actions terrified him as well. “She must know what she’s doing.”

“Perhaps she does,” Verlaine said. “But how in the hell is she going to get out of there?”

Below, the Nephilim parted, making a path for Gabriella and Alistair to walk unimpeded to Grigori, who stood near the statue of Prometheus. Gabriella appeared smaller, more fragile in the shadow of the creatures, and the reality of their situation hit Evangeline with full force: The same passion and dedication that drove the Venerable Father Clematis to descend into the depths of the gorge and face the unknown and the drive to knowledge that had sealed her own mother’s murder-these were the forces that brought Gabriella to fight Percival Grigori.

In a distant part of her consciousness, Evangeline understood the choreography of her grandmother’s plan-she saw Gabriella arguing with Grigori, diverting his attention as Alistair ran to the statue of Prometheus-yet she was shocked by the directness of Alistair’s execution. Stepping gingerly into the pool of water, he waded to the statue’s base, mist soaking his clothes and hair as he climbed to the golden ring encircling Prometheus’s body. Ice must have made the edge slippery: instead of climbing farther, he reached along the interior of the ring and grasped at something behind it. From her vantage directly above the statue, Evangeline could not be certain of the mechanics of the procedure. And yet it appeared that Alistair was unfastening something from behind the ring. As he lifted it free, she saw that he had detached a small bronze box.

“Evangeline!” Alistair called, his voice almost drowned out by the fountain, so that she hardly hear him. “Catch!”

Alistair threw the box. It flew over the Prometheus statue, over the transparent plastic barrier between the skating rink and the concourse, and fell at Evangeline’s feet. She scooped it from the sidewalk and held it in her hand. The box was oblong and as heavy as a golden egg.

Clutching the case to her chest, Evangeline assessed the plaza once more. On one side, the ice rink was blocked by people removing skates with studied nonchalance. The Gibborim had begun to slowly encircle Alistair on the ice. He appeared frail and vulnerable compared to the Gibborim, and when the creatures descended upon him, Evangeline touched the soft woolen scarf he had given her, wishing she could do something to help him escape. But it was impossible to get close to him. Within minutes, the creatures would finish their gruesome business with Alistair Carroll and turn upon the angelologists.

Aware of the dire turn in their predicament, Bruno looked about the concourse for an escape route. At last he appeared to arrive at a conclusion. “Come,” he said, gesturing to Verlaine and Evangeline to follow him along the plaza.

Grigori barked something to them and, drawing a gun from his pocket, put it to Gabriella’s head.

“Come, Evangeline,” Bruno said, his voice filled with urgency. “Now.”

But Evangeline could not follow him. Looking from Bruno to her grandmother, held captive at the center of the ice, she understood that she had to act quickly. She knew that Gabriella would want her to follow Bruno-there was no doubt that the case containing the lyre was more important than the life of any one of them-and yet she could not simply turn and leave her grandmother to die.

She squeezed Verlaine’s hand and, pulling herself away, ran to her grandmother. Down the steps and onto the ice she ran, knowing even as she went that she was putting their lives-and much more-in danger. Even so, she could not just leave Gabriella. She had lost everyone. Gabriella was all she had left.

On the ice, Gibborim held Gabriella at Grigori’s side, one gruesome creature to each of her arms. Gibborim closed in behind Evangeline as she made her way across the skating rink, sealing her path. She could not go back.

“Come,” Grigori said, gesturing to Evangeline with his cane. Eyeing the bronze box Alistair had thrown her, he said, “Bring it here. Give it to me.

Evangeline walked closer until she stood before Grigori. Looking him over, she took in his appearance, shocked at his condition. He was nothing at all as she had imagined him to be. He was hunched, frail, and gaunt. He extended his withered hand, and Evangeline placed the bronze box from the Prometheus statue in his palm. Grigori held it up to the light and examined it, as if unsure what such a tiny box could contain. Smiling, he dropped it into his pocket and, with a sweep of his hand, snatched the leather case from Evangeline.

Rockefeller Center Ice Skating Rink, Fifth Avenue, New York City

Verlaine knew that the creatures’ wings were tucked under their black cloaks, and he understood the destruction they were capable of inflicting if they were to deploy them. Yet to the ordinary person the creatures appeared to be little more than a band of oddly dressed men performing some bizarre ritual on the ice. They followed Grigori’s orders, assembling around him at the center of the rink, creating an impenetrable wall between Grigori and the angelologists. The orchestrations of the Gibborim would have absorbed Verlaine’s entire attention if it were not for the fact that Evangeline stood surrounded by this dark horde of creatures.

“Stay here,” Bruno said, gesturing for Verlaine to remain where he stood, above the Prometheus statue. “Saitou-san, take the stairs. I’m going to go to the other side of the rink and see if I can divert Grigori.”

“It’s impossible,” Saitou-san said. “Look at how many of them there are.”

Bruno paused, staring out over the rink. “We can’t leave them out there,” he said, his anguish apparent. “We have to try something.”

Bruno and Saitou-san ran off, leaving Verlaine to watch helplessly from his perch. He could hardly keep himself from jumping over the barrier onto the ice. He felt sick at the sight of Evangeline in danger, and yet he could do nothing at all to rescue her. He had known her only one day and yet the thought of losing whatever future awaited him with her terrified him. He called her name, and through the chaos of creatures she looked up at him. Even as Grigori pushed her ahead, steering her and Gabriella from the ice, she had heard Verlaine calling to her.

For a second, Verlaine felt as if he were outside himself, watching his misery from a distance. The irony of his position wasn’t lost on him: He had become the destitute tragicomic leading man watching the woman he loved be swept away by a dastardly villain. It was amazing how love had the power to make him feel that he was both a Hollywood cliché and an utter original at once. He loved Evangeline, this he knew for certain. He would do anything for her.

At the opposite end of the rink, Bruno was watching the creatures. It was plain that he would be vastly outnumbered if he went into the mêlée of Gibborim. Even if the three of them went in at once, it would be impossible to reach Gabriella and Evangeline. From her position at the stairs, Saitou-san awaited a signal to go in. But Bruno, like Verlaine, could see the hopelessness of their position. There was nothing they could do but watch.

A rumbling noise consumed the din of city sounds. At first Verlaine was unable to discern the source of the noise-it began as a soft stirring in the distance and grew in a matter of seconds to the distinct growl of an engine. Scanning the plaza, he saw that a black utility van, identical to the vans he’d found parked outside of St. Rose Convent, was driving over the concourse to the skating rink, cutting a path through the crowd.

As the van approached, Grigori waved the gun at Gabriella and Evangeline, pushing them up the steps. Verlaine strained to see Evangeline, but Gibborim stood on each side of her, blocking his view. As the entourage passed Saitou-san, he could detect a moment of indecision in her manner. For an instant it appeared as if she might push past the Gibborim and tackle Grigori herself. Realizing that she was far too weak she did nothing.

Grigori forced Evangeline and Gabriella into the van, pushing them inside with the gun and swinging the door closed in one quick motion. As the van drove away, Verlaine called out to Evangeline, desperately, his helplessness filling him with anger. He ran after the van, past Christmas lights, past the herald angels with their golden trumpets raised to the black night sky, past the immense evergreen tree adorned with colored lights. The van turned into traffic and disappeared. Evangeline was gone.

The Gibborim dispersed, climbing the stairs and disappearing into the crowds of confused people, sliding away as if nothing had happened at all. When the ice was clear, Verlaine ran down the stairs and walked onto the rink where Evangeline had been. He slipped forward and back on the soles of his sneakers, balancing himself as we went. The spotlights trained over the ice left a swirling polish upon its surface, gold and blue and orange, like an opal. Something at the center of the rink caught his eye. He squatted on his haunches. Running his finger over the cold surface, he lifted a glimmering golden chain. A lyre pendant had been pressed into the ice.

East Forty-eighth Street and Park Avenue, New York City

Percival Grigori ordered the driver to turn onto Park Avenue and head north to his apartment, where Sneja and his father would be waiting for him. The wide avenue was clogged with traffic; they moved forward in incremental lurches. The black branches of winter trees had been strung with thousands of colored lights that rose and fell along the median, reminding him that human sects were still celebrating their holiday gatherings. Holding the case, its aged, scuffed leather rough under his fingers, Percival knew that for once Sneja would be pleased. He could almost imagine the pleasure she would show when he placed the lyre and Gabriella Levi-Franche Valko at her feet. With Otterley gone, he was Sneja’s last hope. Surely this would redeem him.

Gabriella sat across from him, glaring with pure contempt. It had been more than fifty years since their last meeting, and yet his feelings for her were as strong-and as conflicted-as they’d been the day he’d ordered her capture. Gabriella hated him now, that much was clear, but he had always admired the strength of her feelings: Whether it be passion or hatred or fear, she felt each emotion with the entirety of her being. He’d believed that her power over him had ended, and yet he could feel himself grow weak in her presence. She had lost her youth and beauty, but she was still dangerously magnetic. Although he had the power to take her life in an instant, she appeared utterly unafraid. This would change once they reached his mother. Sneja had never been intimidated by Gabriella.

As the van slowed and stopped at a traffic light, Percival studied the young woman at Gabriella’s side. It seemed absurd, but her resemblance to the Gabriella he’d known fifty years before-her creamy white skin, the shape of her green eyes-was uncanny. It was as if the Gabriella of his fantasies had materialized before him. The young woman also wore a golden lyre pendant about her neck, the identical pendant Gabriella had worn in Paris, a necklace he knew she would never part with.

Suddenly, before Percival had the chance to react, Gabriella flung open the door of the van, grabbed the case from Percival’s lap, and leaped out into the street, the young woman following close behind.

Percival screamed for the driver to follow them. Cutting through the red light, the van turned right onto Fifty-first, driving the wrong way on a one-way street-but even as the van was upon them, the women evaded it, running across Lexington Avenue and disappearing into a staircase down to the subway. Percival grabbed his cane and jumped through the door Gabriella had left open, pushing himself forward with all his strength. He ran as best he could through the crowds, his body aching with each halting step.

He had never been inside a subway station in New York City, and the MetroCard machines and the maps and the turnstiles were strange and unreadable. He was at a loss for how it all worked. Many years ago he’d been to the subway in Paris. The opening of the Métro at the turn of the last century had drawn him underground out of curiosity, and he’d taken the trains more than once when it was the fashion, but the appeal had worn off quickly. In New York such transport was out of the question. The thought of standing next to so many human beings, all of them crushed together, made him nauseous.

At the turnstiles he paused to catch his breath, and then he pushed at the metal bar. It was locked in place. He pushed a second time, and once again the bar caught. Smashing his cane on the turnstile, he cursed in frustration, noticing as he did how people in the crowd paused to examine him, as if he were insane. Once he would simply have scaled the metal barriers with ease. Fifty years ago it would have been only a matter of seconds before he would have caught Gabriella-who also could not move as quickly as she once had-and her associate. But now he was left helpless. There was nothing to do but get around these ludicrous metal barriers.

A young man in a tracksuit entered the station and pulled a plastic card from his pocket. Percival waited, letting him come to the turnstile, and then, just as he was about to swipe his card, Percival slid the knobbed handle of his cane from the shaft and, pressing the tip into the man’s back, jabbed with all his might. The man’s body lurched forward, slamming into the turnstile and falling back at Percival’s feet. As the man moaned in pain, Percival snatched the card from the injured man’s fingers, swiped it, and pushed through the gates of the subway. In the distance he heard the thundering of a train approaching the platform.

Fifty-first Street and Lexington Avenue station, #6 downtown local train, New York City

As the train came into the station, a whoosh of hot air brushed against Evangeline’s skin. She took a deep breath, taking in the smell of stale air and hot metal. The doors slid open, and a stream of passengers stepped onto the platform. She and Gabriella had run less than a block to the station, but the effort had rendered her grandmother breathless. As Evangeline assisted her into a glossy plastic seat, she saw how weakened Gabriella had become. Her grandmother leaned back against the seat, trying to recover her equilibrium, and Evangeline wondered how long they would be able to continue if Percival Grigori had followed them.

The car was empty except for a drunk man stretched across a row of seats at the far end, and within a few sniffs Evangeline understood why there were no other passengers in their proximity. The man had vomited all over himself and the seats, leaving a pungent stench. She almost gagged from the odor, but there was no way she could risk stepping out onto the platform. Instead she tried to figure out which train they were on and, finding a map, she deduced their position: They were on the 4-5-6 green line. Tracing the line south, she saw that it ended at the Brooklyn Bridge-City Hall station. She knew the streets near the bridge intimately. If they could only get there, she would have no trouble finding them a place to hide. They must leave at once. And yet the doors, which Evangeline expected to close immediately, stood open.

A loud, jarring voice came onto the intercom system, speaking in a rapid string of words, each one running into the next. The announcement, Evangeline surmised, must have something to do with a delay at the station, although she couldn’t be sure. The doors sat open, leaving them exposed. Panic surged through her at the thought of being trapped, but her grandmother’s sudden agitation overshadowed her thoughts.

“What’s wrong?” Evangeline asked.

“It’s gone,” Gabriella said, grasping at her throat, clearly startled. “My amulet has fallen off.”

Evangeline instinctively touched her own throat, feeling the cold metal of her golden lyre pendant. At once she began to unfasten the clasp, to give the necklace to her grandmother, but Gabriella stopped her. “You will need your pendant now more than ever.”

Pendant or no pendant, it was too dangerous to remain standing there, waiting. Evangeline looked out at the platform, measuring the distance to the exit. She was about to take her grandmother by the arm and escort her off the train when, through a graffiti-etched window, the shape of their pursuer appeared. He limped from the stairwell and onto the platform, searching the train. Evangeline ducked below the window, pulling Gabriella with her, hoping he hadn’t seen them. To her relief, a bell sounded and the doors began to close. The car pulled away from the station, its wheels grinding on metal as they gained speed.

But when Evangeline looked up, her heart sank. A bloodied cane filled her vision. Percival Grigori leered down at her, his face twisted in rage and exhaustion. His breathing was so labored that Evangeline calculated they would be able to outrun him once they made it to the next station. She doubted he’d be able to follow them up even the smallest flight of stairs. But as Percival removed the gun from his pocket and gestured for Evangeline and Gabriella to stand, she knew that he’d caught them. Grasping a metal bar for support, Evangeline held her grandmother close.

“Here we are again,” Percival said, his voice little more than a whisper as he leaned over and took the leather case from Gabriella. “But perhaps this time we are dealing with the real thing.”

As the train made its way through the darkness of the tunnels, swaying with the curve of the underground passage, Percival placed the case on the plastic seat and opened it. The train stopped at a station and the doors opened, but as passengers stepped inside, they took one smell of the drunk man and changed cars. Percival didn’t appear to notice. He unwrapped the lyre’s body from the green velvet cloth, removed the plectrum from its leather satchel, withdrew the crossbar from its casket, and unwound the lyre’s strings. From his pocket he took the small bronze case Alistair Carroll had recovered from Rockefeller Center, worked it open, and examined the Valkine tuning pegs. The pieces of the lyre lay before them, rocking with the movement of the train, waiting to be fitted together.

Percival lifted the journal from the bottom of the case, its leather cover and golden angel clasp moving in and out of the flickering light. He turned the pages, flipping past the familiar sections of historical information, magic squares, and sigils and pausing at the point where Angela’s mathematical formulas began.

“What are these numbers?” he asked, examining the notebook with careful scrutiny.

“Look closely,” Gabriella said. “You know exactly what they are.”

As he read over the pages, his expression changed from consternation to delight. “They are the formulas you withheld,” Percival said at last.

“What you mean to say,” Gabriella said, “is they are the formulas you killed our daughter for.”

Evangeline caught her breath, finally understanding the cryptic words Gabriella had uttered at the skating rink. Percival Grigori was her grandfather. The realization filled her with horror. Grigori appeared equally stunned. He tried to speak, but a fit of coughing overtook him. He struggled for air until at last he said, “I don’t believe you.”

“Angela never knew her paternity. I spared her the pain of learning the truth. Evangeline, however, has not been spared. She has witnessed firsthand the villainy of her grandfather.”

Percival looked from Gabriella to Evangeline, his haggard features hardening as he fully understood Gabriella’s meaning.

“I am certain,” she continued, “that Sneja would be quite pleased to know that you have given her an heir.”

“A human heir is worthless,” Percival snapped. “Sneja cares only for angelic blood.”

The car rushed into a station, the platform’s white lights flooding the interior, and jerked to a halt at Union Square. The doors opened, and a party of people trickled inside, merry from holiday celebrations. They didn’t appear to notice Percival or the stench in the air and took seats nearby, talking and laughing loudly. Alarmed, Gabriella moved to shield the case from view. “You must not expose the instrument in this fashion,” Gabriella said. “It is too dangerous.”

Percival gestured to Evangeline with the gun. She picked up the pieces one by one, pausing to examine them before replacing them in the case. As her fingers brushed against the metal base of the lyre, a strange sensation fell upon her. At first she ignored the feeling, thinking that it was simply the fear and panic Percival Grigori inspired in her. Then she heard something unearthly-a sweet, perfect music filled her mind, notes rising and falling, each one sending a shiver through her. The sound was so blissful, so exhilarating, that she strained to hear it more clearly. She glanced at her grandmother, who had begun to argue with Grigori. Through the music Evangeline could not hear what Gabriella said. It was as if a thick glass dome had descended around her, separating her from the rest of the world. Nothing at all mattered but the instrument before her. And although the dizzying effect had mesmerized her alone, she knew that the music was not a figment of her imagination. The lyre was calling to her.

Without warning, Percival slammed the top of the case shut and yanked it away from Evangeline, breaking the spell the instrument had cast upon her. A violent surge of despair took hold of her as she lost her grasp upon the case, and before she understood her actions, she fell upon Percival, wrenching the case from him. To her surprise, she had been able to take the instrument with ease. A new strength moved through her, a vitality she had not known only moments before. Her vision was sharper, more precise. She held the case close, ready to protect it.

The train car stopped at another station, and the group of people sauntered off, aloof to the spectacle. A chime rang, and the doors slid shut. They were alone again with the malodorous drunk at the far end of the car.

Evangeline turned away from Gabriella and Percival and opened the case. The pieces were there, waiting to be assembled. Quickly, she fastened the crossbar to the lyre’s base, screwed the tuning pegs into the crossbar, and attached the strings, winding them slowly about the pegs until they were taut. While Evangeline had expected the procedure to be complicated, she was able to fit each new piece to the previous one with ease. As she tightened the strings, she felt vibrations under her fingers.

She ran her hand over the lyre. The metal was cold and smooth. She slid a finger over the firm silk of a string and adjusted the tuning peg, listening to the note change register. She withdrew the plectrum, its surface glinting under the harsh lights of the subway car, and drew it over the strings. In an instant the texture of the world changed. The noise of the subway, the menace of Percival Grigori, the uncontrollable beating of her heart-everything stilled and a lilting, sweet vibration filled her senses once again, many times more powerful than before. She felt both awake and asleep at once. The crisp, vivid sensations of reality were everywhere around her-the rocking of the train, the ivory handle of Percival’s cane-and yet she felt as if she’d fallen into a dream. The sound was so pure, so powerful that it disarmed her entirely.

“Stop,” Gabriella said. Although her grandmother stood only inches away, her voice sounded to Evangeline as if it had come from a distant room. “Evangeline, you don’t know what you’re doing.”

She looked at her grandmother as if through a prism. Gabriella stood close by her side, and yet Evangeline could hardly see her.

Gabriella said, “Nothing is known about the correct method of playing the lyre. The horrors you could bring upon the world are unimaginable. I beg you, stop.”

Percival stared at Evangeline with a look of gratitude and pleasure. The sound of the lyre had begun to work its magic upon him. Stepping forward, his fingers trembling with lust, he touched it. Suddenly his expression changed. He fixed her with a look of horror and awe, equal parts terror and admiration.

Gabriella’s eyes became filled with fear. “My dear Evangeline, what has happened?”

Evangeline could not understand what Gabriella meant. She looked at herself and saw no change. Then, turning, she saw her reflection in the wide, dark glass of the window and caught her breath. Curling about her shoulders, glittering in a nimbus of golden light, hung a pair of luminous, airy wings so mesmerizing in their beauty that she could do nothing but stare at herself. With the slightest pressure of her muscles, the wings unfurled to their full expanse. They were so light, so weightless, that she wondered for a moment if they might be an illusion of the light. She angled her shoulders so that she might look upon them directly. The feathers were diaphanous purple veined with silver. She breathed deeply, and the wings shifted. Soon they beat time with her breathing.

“Who am I?” Evangeline said, the reality of her metamorphosis suddenly dawning upon her. “What have I become?”

Percival Grigori edged close to Evangeline. Whether from the workings of the lyre’s music or his new interest in her, he had changed from a withered, bent figure to an imposing creature whose height dwarfed Gabriella. His skin appeared to Evangeline to be lit by an internal fire, his blue eyes glittered, his back straightened. Throwing his cane to the floor of the subway car, he said, “Your wings are the likeness of your great-great-grandmother Grigori’s wings. I have only heard my father speak of them, but they signify the very purest of our kind. You have become one of us. You are a Grigori:”

He placed his hand upon Evangeline’s arm. His fingers were icy, sending shivers through her, but the sensation filled her with pleasure and strength. It was as though she’d been living in a constrictive shell all her life, one that had, in an instant, fallen away. All at once she felt strong and alive.

“Come with me,” Percival said, his voice silken. “Come to meet Sneja. Come home to your family. We will give you all that you need, everything that you have longed for, anything you might wish to have. You will never want again. You will live long after the world of here and now has disappeared. I will show you how. I will teach you all that I know. Only we can give you your future.”

As she looked into Percival’s eyes, Evangeline understood all that he could bring her. His family and his powers could belong to her. She could have everything she had lost-a home, a family. Gabriella could give her none of these things.

Turning to her grandmother, she was startled to see how Gabriella had changed. She appeared suddenly to be little more than a weak and insignificant woman, a frail human being with tears in her eyes. Evangeline said, “You knew I was like this.”

Gabriella said, “Your father and I had you examined as a little girl, and we saw that your lungs were formed like those of a Nephilistic child, but from our studies-and the work Angela had conducted on Nephilistic decline-we knew that a large percentage of Nephilim do not grow wings at all. Genetics are not enough. There have to be many other factors present.”

Gabriella touched Evangeline’s wings as if taken in by their shimmering beauty. Evangeline pulled away, repulsed.

“You meant to trick me,” Evangeline said. “You believed I would destroy the lyre. You knew what I would become.”

“I had always feared that it would be Angela-her resemblance to Percival was so strong. But I believed that even if the worst happened and she became like him physically, she would transcend him in spirit.”

“But my mother wasn’t like me,” Evangeline said. “She was human.”

Perhaps sensing the conflict raging in Evangeline’s thoughts, Gabriella said, “Yes, your mother was human in every way. She was gentle, compassionate. She loved your father with a human heart. Perhaps it was a mother’s delusion, but I believed that Angela could defy her origins. Her work led us to believe that the creatures were dying out. We hoped for a new race of Nephilim to rise, one in which human traits would overcome. I believed that if her biological structure was Nephilistic, it would be her fate to be the first of this new breed. But it was not Angela’s destiny. It is yours.”

As the train rattled to a stop, and the doors slid back, Gabriella drew her granddaughter close. Evangeline could hardly make out Gabriella’s words. “Run, Evangeline,” she whispered urgently. “Take the lyre and destroy it. Do not fall prey to the temptations you feel. It is up to you to do what is right. Run, my darling, and do not look back.”

Evangeline rested a moment in Gabriella’s arms, the warmth and security of her grandmother’s body reminding her of the safety she had once felt in the presence of her mother. Gabriella squeezed her once more and, with a small push, released her.

Brooklyn Bridge-City Hall station, New York City

Percival took Gabriella by the arms and pulled her from the train. She was light in his grasp, her wrists thin and breakable as twigs. She had never been a match for him, but in Paris she’d been strong enough to put up some resistance. Now she was so feeble, so unresisting that he could harm her without effort. He almost wished she were stronger. He wanted to watch her struggle as he killed her.

The terror in her eyes as he dragged her along the platform would have to suffice. When he clutched her collar, the tiny buttons of her black jacket broke free, scattering across the concrete of the platform like so many beetles fleeing the light. Her exposed skin was pale and wrinkled, except where a thick pink scar curved along the upper edge of her breastbone. Once he had reached a darkened stairwell at the far end of the platform, he threw her down the steps and bounded after her until his shadow cut across her. She tried to roll away, but he held her to the cold concrete floor, pinning her with his knee. He would not let her go.

He placed his hands over her heart. It beat quick and strong against his palms, the pulse as rapid as a small animal’s. “Gabriella, my cherub,” he said, but she would not look at him or speak to him in return. Yet as he slid his hands across her tiny rib cage, he could feel her fear: His palms became wet with the sweat that coated her skin. He closed his eyes. He’d been starving for her for many decades. To his delight, she turned under him, twisting and writhing, but there was no point in the struggle. Her life belonged to him.

When he gazed upon Gabriella again, she was dead. Her great green eyes were fixed open, as clear and beautiful as the day he’d met her. He could not explain it, but a moment of tenderness fell over him. He touched her cheek, her black hair, her small hands encased in tight leather gloves. The kill had been glorious, and yet his heart ached.

A sound drew Percival’s attention to the platform. Evangeline stood watching at the top of the stairs, her spectacular wings extended from her body. He had never seen anything like them-they rose from her back in perfect symmetry, pulsing in rhythm with her breath. Even at the height of his youth, his wings had not been so regal. Still, he, too, was growing stronger. Exposure to the lyre’s music had given him renewed strength. When he possessed the lyre for himself, he would be more powerful than he’d ever been before.

Percival approached Evangeline. His muscles did not cramp; the bite of the harness no longer slowed him. The lyre was cradled in Evangeline’s hands, its metal gleaming. Fighting an urge to snatch the instrument from her, Percival measured his movements. He must remain calm. He mustn’t frighten her away.

“You have waited for me,” he said, smiling down at Evangeline. Despite the power her wings gave her, there was something childlike in her manner. She was hesitant as she met his gaze.

“I couldn’t leave,” she said. “I had to see for myself what it means-”

“What it means to be one of us?” Percival said. “Ah, there is much to learn. There is much I will teach you.”

Drawing himself up to his full height, Percival placed his hand on Evangeline’s back, sliding his fingers on the delicate skin at the base of her wings. As he pressed the point where the appendages met her spine, she felt suddenly vulnerable, as if he had hit upon a hidden weakness.

Percival said, “Retract them. Someone may see you. You must only open them in private.”

With Percival’s instruction Evangeline retracted the wings, their airy substance collapsing as they slipped from view.

“Good,” he said, leading her along the platform. “Very good. You will understand everything soon enough.”

Together Percival and Evangeline made their way up the stairs and through the mezzanine of the station. Leaving the neon behind, they walked outside and into the cold, clear night. The Brooklyn Bridge lifted before them, its massive towers illuminated by floodlights. Percival searched for a taxi, but the streets were deserted. They would need to find a way back to the apartment. Sneja was surely waiting. No longer able to contain himself, Percival eased the lyre from Evangeline’s grasp. He held it close to his chest, basking in his conquest. His granddaughter had brought him the lyre. Soon, his strength would return. He only wished Sneja were there to witness the glory of the Grigori. Then, his triumph would have been complete.

Brooklyn Bridge-City Hall station, New York City

Without the lyre, Evangeline’s senses returned and she began to understand the spell the lyre had cast upon her. She had been captive to it, held in a mesmerism that she only fully comprehended once the lyre had been taken from her. Horrified, she recalled how she had simply stood by as Percival killed Gabriella. Her grandmother had struggled under his grasp, and Evangeline-who was near enough to hear the exhalation of Gabriella’s last breath-had merely observed her suffering, feeling nothing at all but a removed, almost clinical interest in the kill. She’d noted how Percival had placed his hands upon Gabriella’s chest, how Gabriella had struggled, and then, as if the life had been sucked from her, how Gabriella had become perfectly still. Watching Percival, Evangeline understood the pleasure he’d taken from the kill. To her horror, she longed to experience the sensation for herself.

Tears came to her eyes. Had Gabriella died as Angela had? Had her own mother struggled and suffered at Percival’s hands? In disgust, Evangeline touched her shoulders and the flat of her back. The wings were gone. Although she remembered clearly that Percival had taught her to retract them and that she had felt them settle under her clothing, resting lightly against her skin as she’d tucked them away, she was not quite certain that they had existed at all. Perhaps it had been a terrible nightmare. And yet the lyre in Percival’s possession proved that everything had happened just as she remembered.

“Come, assist me,” Percival ordered. Unbuttoning his overcoat and then the silk shirt beneath, he revealed the front of an intricate black leather harness. “Unbuckle it. I must see for myself.”

The buckles were small and difficult to unfasten, but soon she had worked them open. Evangeline felt that she might be sick as her fingers brushed her grandfather’s cold, white flesh. Percival stripped away his shirt and let the harness fall to the floor. His ribs were lined with burns and bruises from the leather. She stood so close to Percival that she could smell his body. His proximity repelled her.

“Behold,” Percival said, his manner triumphant. He turned, and Evangeline saw small nubs of new pink flesh scaled with golden feathers. “They are returning, exactly as I knew they would. Everything has changed now that you have joined us.”

Evangeline watched him, taking in his words, weighing the choice before her. It would be easy to follow Grigori, to join his family and become one of them. Perhaps, he had been right when he said that she was a Grigori. Yet, her grandmother’s words echoed through her mind: “Do not fall pray to the temptations you feel. It is up to you to do what is right.” Evangeline looked beyond Grigori. The Brooklyn Bridge rose against the night sky. It made her think of Verlaine, how she had trusted him.

“You are wrong,” she said, her anger uncontainable. “I have not joined you. I will never join you or your murderous family.”

Evangeline lunged forward and, recalling the intense feeling of insecurity she’d felt when Percival had touched her at the base of her wings, grasped the soft flesh on his back, took hold of the wing nubs he’d taken such pride in showing her, and thrust him to the floor. She was surprised at her strength-Percival hit the concrete hard. As he writhed in agony at her feet, she used her advantage to hoist him to his stomach, exposing the nubs. She had broken one of the wings. The torn flesh oozed a thick blue fluid. The flesh hung agape, and a great wound opened where the wing had been, allowing her to witness the gruesome collapse of his lungs.

As Grigori died, his body transformed. The eerie whiteness of his skin dimmed, his golden hair dissolved, his eyes turned into black vacancies, and the tiny wings crumbled to a fine metallic dust. Evangeline bent and pressed her finger to the dust and, holding it aloft, so that she could see the glittering grains sparkle against her skin, she blew it into the cold wind.

The lyre lay tucked under Percival’s arm. Evangeline eased it away from his body, relieved to have it in her possession even as the hypnotic power it might cast terrified her. Overcome with disgust at the sight of the corpse, she ran from Percival’s body, as if it might contaminate her. In the distance the intersecting cables of the bridge wove across her line of vision. Floodlights illuminated the granite towers that rose into the frigid night sky. If only she could cross the bridge and find her father waiting for her to come home.

Climbing the concrete ramp, she emerged on a wooden platform that brought her to the pedestrian walkway at the center of the bridge. Holding the lyre close, she ran. The wind hit her full force, thrusting her back, yet she struggled forward, keeping her vision trained on the lights of Brooklyn. The walkway was deserted, while a stream of cars sped by on either side of her, their headlights flickering between the slats of the guardrail.

As she reached the first tower, Evangeline paused. Snow had begun to fall. Thick, wet flakes drifted through the mesh of cables, alighting upon the lyre in her hand, upon the walkway, upon the dark river below. The city stretched around her, its lights glimmering on the obsidian surface of the East River as if it were a single dome of life in an endless void. Scanning the length of the bridge, she felt her heart break. No one was waiting for her. Her father was dead. Her mother, Gabriella, the sisters she’d grown to love-they were all gone. Evangeline was utterly alone.

With a flex of her muscles, she unfurled the wings on her back, opening them to their full span. It surprised her how easily she could control them; it was as though she’d had them her whole life. She stepped up onto the railing of the walkway, girding herself against the wind. Concentrating on the stars glinting in the distance, she steadied herself. A gale threw her off kilter, but with an elegant twist of her wings, she kept her balance. Stretching her wings, Evangeline pushed away from the solid world. The wind lifted her into the air, past the thick steel cables, and up toward the abyss of sky.

Evangeline guided herself to the top of the tower. The pavement far below had been blanketed in a layer of pure white snow. She felt strangely immune to the freezing air, as if she’d gone numb. Indeed, she no longer felt much of anything at all. Gazing at the river, Evangeline drew herself inward, and in a moment of determination she knew what she must do.

She brought the lyre between her hands. Pressing her palms around the cold edges of the base, she felt the metal soften and grow warm. As she added pressure, the lyre grew less resistant in her hands, as if the Valkine had reacted chemically with her skin and had begun a slow dissolution. Soon the lyre began to glow with a molten heat against her flesh. In Evangeline’s grasp it had transformed into a ball of fire brighter than any of the lights glowing in the sky above. For a fleeting moment, she was tempted to keep the lyre intact. Then, remembering Gabriella’s words, she thrust the fire forth. It fell like a shooting star to the river. Its light dissolved into the inky darkness.

Gabriella Léví, Franche Valko’s brownstone, Upper West Side, Manhattan

Although Verlaine wanted to be of assistance to the angelologists, it was clear that he hadn’t the training or the experience necessary to be of much help and so he stood at a remove, observing the frantic efforts to locate Gabriella and Evangeline. The details of the abduction replayed in his mind-the Gibborim swarming the rink, Gabriella and Alistair descending to the ice, Grigori’s escape. But as he withdrew into himself, his thoughts grew strangely still. Recent events had left him numb. Perhaps he was in shock. He couldn’t reconcile the world he had lived in the day before with the one he had now entered. Sinking onto a couch, he stared through the window at the darkness beyond. Only hours before Evangeline had sat at his side on that very couch, so close he could feel her every movement. The strength of his feelings for her baffled him. Was it possible that he had met her only yesterday? Now, after so little time, she filled his thoughts. He was desperate to find her. To locate Evangeline, however, the angelologists would have to pin down the Nephilim. It seemed as impossible as grasping a shadow. The creatures had virtually disappeared at the skating rink, dispersing into the crowd the instant Grigori had left. This, Verlaine understood, was their greatest strength: They appeared from nowhere and evaporated into the night, invisible and deadly and untouchable.

After Grigori had left Rockefeller Center, Verlaine joined Bruno and Saitou-san on the main concourse and the three of them fled. Bruno flagged a taxi and soon they were speeding uptown to Gabriella’s brownstone, where they were met by a van of field agents. Bruno took over, opening the rooms at the top of the house to the angelologists. Verlaine watched his gaze stray intermittently to the windows, as if he expected Gabriella to return any moment.

Soon after midnight they learned of Vladimir’s death. Verlaine heard the news-delivered by an angelologist dispatched from Riverside Church-with an eerie feeling of equilibrium, as if he’d lost the ability to be shocked by the Nephilim’s violence. The dual murders of Vladimir and Mr. Gray had been discovered not long after Saitou-san had escaped with the sound chest. The bizarre state of Vladimir’s body, left charred beyond recognition, not unlike Alistair Carroll’s, in what Verlaine was beginning to see as the Nephilim’s signature, would surely be reported everywhere the next morning. With one angelologist dead and two missing, it was clear that their mission had ended in disaster.

Bruno’s determination only increased after learning of Vladimir’s death. He began barking orders at the others while Saitou-san stationed herself at the gilded escritoire and made phone calls, requesting assistance and information from their agents on the street. Bruno hung a map at the center of the room, divided the city into quadrants, and dispatched agents throughout the city, taking every possible approach to finding a clue about Grigori’s whereabouts. Even Verlaine knew that there were hundreds if not thousands of Nephilim in Manhattan. Grigori could be hiding anywhere. Although his Fifth Avenue apartment was already under surveillance, Bruno sent additional agents across the park. When it became clear that he wasn’t there, Bruno went back to the maps and more fruitless searching.

Bruno and Saitou-san each voiced theories, one more unlikely than the next. Though they didn’t let up for a moment, Verlaine sensed that they were getting nowhere. All at once, the angelologists’ efforts to locate Grigori seemed pointless. He knew that the stakes were high and the consequences of not finding the lyre incalculable. The angelologists cared about the lyre; Evangeline hardly registered in their efforts. Only now, sitting on this couch they had shared the previous afternoon, was he struck by the truth of the matter. If he wanted to find Evangeline alive, he would have to do something himself.

Without a word to the others, Verlaine slipped into his overcoat, took the stairs two at a time, and ducked out the front door. He inhaled the freezing night air and checked his watch: It was after two o’clock on Christmas morning. The street was empty; the entire city was asleep. Gloveless, Verlaine shoved his hands in his pockets and began trekking south along Central Park West, too lost in thought to notice the biting cold. Somewhere in this bleak, labyrinthine city, Evangeline waited.

By the time he’d made his way downtown and had begun moving toward the East River, Verlaine had grown increasingly angry. He walked faster, passing blocks of darkened storefronts, turning possible plans over in his mind. Try as he might, he could not reconcile himself to the reality that Evangeline was lost to him. He cycled through every strategy to find them he could imagine but-like Bruno and Saitou-san-he came up with nothing at all. Of course, it was insane to think he might succeed where they had not. In this haze of frustration, the scars woven over Gabriella’s skin rose in his mind and he shuddered in the miserable cold. He could not allow himself to entertain the possibility that Evangeline was in pain.

In the distance, he saw the Brooklyn Bridge illuminated from below by floodlights. He recalled Evangeline’s nostalgic attachment to the bridge. In his mind’s eye, he saw her profile as she drove them from the convent toward the city and shared the memory of childhood walks with her father. The purity of her feelings, and the sadness in her voice, had made his heart ache. He had seen the bridge hundreds of times before, of course, but suddenly it had an undeniable personal resonance.

Verlaine checked his watch. It was now nearly five in the morning and the faintest hint of light colored the sky beyond the bridge. The city seemed eerie and still. Headlights from the occasional taxi flickered over the bridge’s ramparts, breaking the gauzy darkness. Runnels of warm steam coiled in the brittle air. The bridge rose stark and powerful against the buildings beyond. For a moment he simply looked at it, this steel and concrete and granite edifice.

As if he’d reached an unintended but final destination, Verlaine was about to turn away and head back to the brownstone when a movement high above caught his eye. He looked up. Perched on the west tower, its wings extended, stood one of the creatures. Raised in the half-light of dawn, he could just make out the tapering elegance of the wings. The creature was standing upon the edge of a tower as if examining the city. As he strained to examine its otherworldy magnificence more closely, he detected something unusual in its appearance. Whereas the other creatures had been enormous-much taller and stronger than human beings-this one was tiny. Indeed, the creature seemed almost fragile under its great wings. He watched in awe as it extended them, as if in preparation for flight. As it stepped to the edge of the tower, he caught his breath. The monstrous angel was his Evangeline.

Verlaine’s first impulse was to call out to her, but he could not find his voice. He was overwhelmed by horror and a poisonous sense of betrayal. Evangeline had deceived him and worse, she had lied to all of them. Repulsed, he turned and ran, blood thrumming in his ears, his heart pounding with the effort. The freezing air filled his lungs, singeing them as he breathed. He could not tell if the pain in his chest was from the chill or from losing Evangeline.

Whatever his feelings, he knew he must warn the angelologists. Gabriella had told him once-was it only the previous morning?-that if he became one of them, he could never go back. He understood now that she had been right.

West tower, Brooklyn Bridge, between Manhattan and Brooklyn, New York City

Evangeline woke before the sun rose, her head nestled upon the soft cushion of her wings. The disorientation of sleep clouded her thoughts, and she half expected to see the familiar objects of her room at St. Rose-her starched white sheets, the small wooden dresser, and, from the corner of her window, the Hudson River flowing by beyond the glass. But as she stood and gazed over the darkened city, her wings unfolding around her like a great purple cloak, the reality of everything that had happened hit her. She understood what she was and that she could never go back. All that she had been, and all that she had thought she would become, had disappeared forever.

Looking below, to be sure that there was no one to witness her descent, Evangeline climbed up on the granite edge of the tower. The wind lifted her wings, whistling through them, filling them with buoyancy. At such tremendous height, all the world at her feet, a moment of trepidation took hold of her. Flight was new to her, and the fall appeared endless. But as she took a deep breath and stepped off the tower, her heart rising to her throat at the depths before her, she knew that her wings could not fail her. In a sweep of weightlessness, she rose into the currents of icy air.

While the original manuscript of the Venerable Clematis’ expedition was not organized in discrete sections, the translator has imposed a system of numbered entries for this edition. Such divisions have been created for the purpose of clarity. The original fragments-for the recovered notebook cannot be designated anything other than the roughest of personal writings, scraps of thoughts and reflections jotted down during the course of the journey perhaps intended as a mnemonic device for the eventual composition of a book about the first quest to locate the fallen angels-were without system. The imposed divisions attempt to divide the notebook chronologically and offer a semblance of cohesion to the manuscript.-R.V.

The incident at the pass at Roncesvalles occurred during an exploratory mission to the Pyrenees in A.D. 778. Little is known about the journey, except that the mission lost the majority of its men due to an ambush. Witnesses described the attackers as giants with extrahuman strength, superior weaponry and astonishing physical beauty-descriptions perfectly in line with contemporary portraits of the Nephilim. One testimony claims that winged figures descended upon the giants in a blaze of fire, suggesting a counterattack by archangels, a claim that scholars have studied with some fascination, as this would signal only the third angelophony for the purpose of battle. An alternate version is recorded in La Chanson de Roland, an account that differs significantly from angelological records.

The Venerable Fathers’ search for artifacts and relics throughout Europe is well documented in Frederic Bonn’s TheSacred Missions of the Venerable Fathers:A.D. 925-954, which includes copies of the maps, omens, and oracles used in such journeys.

modern place-names have been substituted for those of the tenth century wherever applicable.

The recent recovery and systemization of the work of Gregor Mendel, Augustinian monk and member of the Angelological Scholars of Vienna from 1857 to 1866, has done much to shed light upon what had been a millennial mystery to historians of Nephilistic and human growth in Europe. One can see that, according to the Mendelian chromosome theory of heredity, recessive human traits from the Daughters of Men were carried through Japheth’s Nephilistic line, waiting to reemerge in future generations. Although the chromosomal repercussions of the human-Nephilistic cross strike modern investigators as an obvious result of such breeding, the emergence of human beings into the pool of Nephilim most surely came as a great shock to the population and was considered to be the work of God. In earlier writings, the Venerable Clematis himself had written that human children were insinuated into the Nephilistic line of Japheth by God Himself. The Nephilim, of course, had quite a different interpretation of such genetic calamity.

There are various documents pertaining to the superior physical strength of Nephilistic offspring and the genetic inevitability of the emergence of humans in the children of Watchers and women, particularly Dr. G. D. Holland’s survey of Nephilistic demographics in Human and Angelic Bodies: A Medical Inquiry (Gallimard, 1926).

Among certain tribes of Nephilim, the practice of sacrificing human children became popular. It is speculated that this was both a means of controlling the growing human population-which was a threat to Nephilistic society-and an appeal to God to forgive the sins of the Watchers, still imprisoned deep below the earth.

Although this is not the first appearance of the term “master race” in discussion of the Nephilim, as there are numerous instances of Nephilistic creatures labeled as belonging to a “master race” or “super race,” it was certainly the most famous and oft-quoted source. Ironically, Clematis’ notion of a super race or superman-held by angelologists to be the mark of Nephilistic self-mythology-was appropriated and reinvented in more modern times by scholars such as Count Arthur de Gobineau, Friedrich Nietzsche, and Arthur Schopenhauer as a component of human philosophical thought, which in turn was used in Nephilistic circles to support the racial theory of die Herrenrasse, a notion that has grown in popularity in contemporary Europe.

It is at this juncture that Clematis’ handwriting gives way to a faltering scribble. This corruption is due, no doubt, to the extreme pressure of the mission at hand, but also, perhaps, to a growing fatigue. The Venerable Father was nearly sixty years old in the year A.D. 925, and his strength must surely have been compromised by the journey up the mountain. The translator has taken great care in his attempt to decipher the text and render it accessible to the modern reader.

Here Clematis refers to the famous line of TheConsolation of Philosophy, 3.55, associated with the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice: For he who overcomes should turn back his gaze toward the Tartarean cave, Whatever excellence he takes with him he loses when he looks below.

Hereafter, the remaining sections of Clematis’ account are written in the hand of a monk, Father Deopus, who was assigned to care for Clematis in the immediate aftermath of the expedition. At Clematis’ request, Deopus sat at his side for the purpose of dictation. According to Deopus’ personal account of the days he spent at Clematis’ deathbed, when he was not occupied as a scribe, he made tinctures and compresses he placed over Clematis’ body, to ease the pain of his charred skin. That Deopus was able to capture so thorough an account of the disastrous First Angelological Expedition under such conditions, when the Venerable Father’s injuries surely prevented communication, is a great benefit to scholars. The discovery of Father Deopus’ transcription in 1919 opened the door to further scholarly inquiry into the First Angelological Expedition.

According to an account by Father Deopus, Clematis spent a number of agonized hours raving these words before, in a fit of madness, he tore at his burned flesh, ripping the bandages and compresses from his charred skin. Clematis’ act of self-mutilation left flecks of blood upon the pages of the notebook, stains that are clearly visible even now, at the time of translation.

The narrative leap one encounters in this section may be the result of a gap in Father Deopus’ transcription but is more likely an accurate reflection of Clematis’ incoherent state of mind. One must remember that the Venerable Father was in no condition to relate his experiences in the cavern with clarity. That Father Deopus went to such lengths to fashion a narrative from Clematis’ desperate ranting is a testament to his resourcefulness.

The reference to the Archangel Gabriel’s golden lyre is the most tantalizing and frustrating passage to be found in the Venerable Clematis’ account of his journey to Hades. According to a communication written by Father Deopus, the Venerable Father had a small metal disk in his possession upon escaping the cavern which, after Clematis’ death, was sent to Paris for examination. Under the scrutiny of ethereal musicologists, it was discovered that Clematis had discovered a plectrum-a metal pick used to play stringed instruments, most commonly the lyre. As a plectrum is traditionally fastened to the instrument by a silk cord, one can infer that Clematis did, in fact, have contact with the lyre, or an instrument that employs a similar plectrum. This leaves the whereabouts of the lyre itself open to speculation. If Clematis had brought the instrument from the gorge, he might have dropped it at the mouth of the pit or perhaps lost hold of it as he fled the mountain. The plectrum rules out the possibility that the lyre was a figment of Clematis’ delusional state, a mythological creation of his beleaguered mind.

It is generally believed that Deopus, at the bequest of the Venerable Clematis, transcribed the melody of the angels’ heavenly chorus. Although the score has never been located, there is great hope a full score of this harmonic progression exists.

After careful examination of Clematis’ account of Brother Francis’ death, and the wounds that led to Clematis’ own death, the general conclusion of angelological scholars has been that Brother Francis died from the effects of extreme exposure to radiation. Studies on the radioactive properties of angels were initiated after a generous donation from the family of Marie Curie and are currently being undertaken by a group of angelological scholars in Hungary.

17

The physical properties of angelic wing structure have been shown most definitively in the influential 1907 study Physiology of Angelic Flight, a work whose superiority in mapping the skeletal and pulmonary properties of wings has become a touchstone in all discussions of the Watchers. Whereas it was once believed that wing appendages were exterior attachments to the body, held in place entirely via musculature, it is now believed that the wings of angels are themselves an outgrowth of the lungs, each wing serving a dual purpose as a means of flight and an external organ of great delicacy. From further modeling, it has been determined that the wing appendages originate in the capillaries of the lung tissue, gaining mass and strength as they blossom forth from the muscles of the back. A mature wing acts as an anatomically complex system of external aspiration in which oxygen is absorbed and carbon dioxide is released through minuscule alveoli-like sacs on the wing shafts. It is estimated that only 10 percent of all respiratory function occurs via the mouth and windpipe, making the wing essential for respiratory function. This is perhaps the single physical flaw in the angelic structure, an Achilles’ heel in an otherwise perfect organism, a weakness Clematis hit upon to great effect.

According to notes left by Deopus, Clematis died before finishing his tale, cutting his narrative to an abrupt end.