Angelopolis A Novel Page 0,28
all Nephilim. Initial attempts to interview the subject were fruitless. He remains unresponsive.”
Angela looked at the angel, and Luca followed with the camera. The creature stared at his interrogator through narrowed eyes. His face was flushed with anger, and his breathing—whether from the cinch of the ropes or the strain of fury—came in labored bursts. Veins snaked over his skin, as if they might explode with the pressure of his blood.
Angela looked at him with a cold, clinical eye and said, “Are you ready to begin?”
The creature’s nostrils flared. He displayed a level of belligerence consistent with Nephilim of his rank and heritage. Verlaine recognized the insouciant, indignant anger of the fallen angel. Although he had not read Milton for years, he couldn’t help but think of Lucifer—the brightest star of heaven—falling to the depths of the earth, undone by beauty and pride.
“Speak, beast,” Vladimir said, stepping behind the angel and tightening the ropes.
The creature closed his eyes and said, “If words were shields, my voice would rally to my defense.” His words seemed to float upon his light, buoyant voice, its tone taken from the pure registers of the angels.
“Riddles will get you nowhere,” Vladimir said.
“Then I will remain stationary for the time being,” the creature said.
Vladimir assessed the angel and, with a swift movement, slapped him across the face. A stream of blue blood slid over his lips and chin and dripped onto his chest. He smiled a vicious, devilish smile, one filled with arrogance. “Do you really believe pain is an effective method? I have lived through things you cannot begin to imagine.”
Angela stood, placed the notebook and pen on the chair, crossed her arms over her chest, and said to Luca, “Perhaps he’ll be more cooperative if I speak to him by myself.”
The camera moved abruptly, and Luca—setting the device onto a table, leaving Angela and the angel in view—stepped into the frame. “There is no way I’m leaving you alone with this thing,” he said.
Angela placed her hand on his arm, as if to assuage his worries. “He can’t do much under the circumstances. I know he has information we can use, if we can get him to talk. If you hear anything alarming, come back in.” Angela glanced at the creature, who had closed his eyes, as if waiting for the ordeal to end. A look of determination passed over her features, and Verlaine knew that she was testing herself against the creature, marking her strength and intelligence against it, placing her bets on her ability to defeat it. He recognized the feeling. It was exactly this that kept him hunting.
“Go on, Luca,” Angela said, opening the door. “I’ll alert you if there’s a problem.”
The film went black and then, in a sputter of light and movement, resumed. The bright, industrial overhead bulb had been dimmed, and a single desk light glowed in a corner, casting a blue shadow over the creature. Angela Valko sat in a metal chair across from the angel. They were alone.
“Identify yourself, please,” Angela said.
“Percival Grigori III,” the creature said. “Son of Sneja and Percival Grigori II.”
Verlaine looked more closely at the creature, trying to understand how this could be the person he had met in New York. The Percival Grigori he had known was twisted and ill, his skin transparent, his eyes a watery, weak blue. The angel in the film was beautiful, his skin glowing with health, his golden hair glossy, his expression one of superiority and defiance. In fact, there was a staggering resemblance between the angelologist and the angel. It was obvious to anyone who saw them together that they were related by blood. And yet, Angela never knew the true identity of her father. Neither one of them could guess what time would bring. Frozen in 1984, they were forever suspended in their innocence.
“Percival,” Angela said, her manner softer, as if she were playing a new role, that of a woman charming a quarrelsome companion. “Can I get you a drink?”
“How kind,” Percival said. “Vodka. Straight.”
Angela stood and walked offscreen. Verlaine heard the clinking of glass. Soon she returned with a cut-crystal tumbler.
Percival looked from the glass to his hands, which were bound by rope. “If you please.”
As Angela hesitated and then untied the ropes, Verlaine wanted to jump into the film and to stop her, to warn her against Percival, to pull her away. He felt his heart sink at what lay ahead. Angela Valko was falling into a trap.
When the ropes fell