Angelopolis A Novel Page 0,33
desperate for them to help him find Evangeline.
He turned to Vera. She had caught up with him and was walking by his side, her hands shoved into the pockets of her jacket.
“There is absolutely no record of this structure, this Angelolopolis, anywhere,” she said, as if they’d been discussing the subject all along. “Not a single angelologist has seen such a place, nor has an expeditionary team attempted to locate one.”
“That is because nobody in his right mind would consider the possibility that the Nephilim would actually construct one,” Bruno said, walking behind them.
Verlaine turned back to look at Bruno. “And yet,” he said, annoyed by Bruno’s dismissive manner, “Percival Grigori spoke of it as if it were already under way.”
“The video was taken nearly three decades ago,” Bruno replied. “If they’d constructed such a thing, we would know about it.”
“Grigori could have been lying,” Vera offered. “An Angelopolis is a utopia of angelic creatures, something everyone hears about at school but never wholly believes to be real. The Nephilim may have wanted to build it, but that doesn’t mean that it was physically possible to do so. It’s a concept more than anything, an idea that has existed for the angels since the great massacre of the Flood.”
“Stories of a mythical angel paradise called an Angelopolis are like Peter Pan’s Never Never Land,” Bruno said.
“But the film points to the fact that the Nephilim—at least Percival Grigori—were working to build it,” Verlaine said. “He mentioned Valkine. They had a sample of Evangeline’s blood. It seems clear to me that whatever they wanted from Evangeline in 1984 is the same motive for why they want her now.”
Vera stopped abruptly and turned to Verlaine. “Evangeline Cacciatore hasn’t been seen since 1999.”
Verlaine looked across the water of the Winter Canal, his gaze settling upon the wide stretch of embankment.
Bruno said, “Evangeline was abducted by an Emim angel last evening in Paris. Verlaine had the honor of speaking with her beforehand. The Cherub with Chariot Egg was in her possession—that is how it came to us.”
“And that is why you came to me,” Vera said.
“You’re our best chance at understanding this,” Verlaine said, struggling to control the sense of urgency he felt. “This can’t all be a coincidence. The Nephilim went after Evangeline for a reason. Angela, the egg, the film, this fairy tale of an Angelopolis—this has to be more than a wild-goose chase.”
“Sure,” Bruno said. “But the function of the Angelopolis, the purpose for building it, its exact location—Percival Grigori didn’t give anything away.”
“True,” Vera said. “We need to find out what was said after the recording stopped.”
“They’re all dead,” Verlaine mumbled. “Vladimir, Angela, Luca—even Percival Grigori.”
“Actually, not all of the participants of that interview are gone,” Bruno said, walking off ahead, scanning the streets for a taxi.
A frigid wind blew off the canal, and Verlaine pulled his jacket close to his body. A cluster of Mara angels stood under the stone archway, the granite façade reflecting the illumination of their sallow skin. They rarely came out in daylight; their sunken eyes spoke of hundreds of years of living in the shadows. Their wings were mottled green and orange with streaks of blue, as iridescent as peacock feathers in the blue light of dawn. There was something disconcerting about seeing the creatures standing before the lovely archway of the bridge, a kind of dislocation that took a moment to adjust to. If it had been a normal morning, and they had been in Paris, Bruno would have insisted that they take the whole lot of them in.
After what seemed like an eternity, a beat-up station wagon rattled to the curb and stopped abruptly. Bruno gave the driver an address and they climbed in. As they pulled away, Verlaine noticed a sleek black car emerge behind them. It followed them, keeping an even pace with the taxi.
“You see that?” Vera asked.
Bruno nodded. “I’m keeping my eye on it.”
Verlaine leaned against the door and watched the car, waiting for Vera to meet his eye. She smiled slightly and brushed her hand over his. Her gesture was ambiguous, and he was certain she meant it to be that way.
• • •
The taxi sped past the Theatre Arts Academy on Mokhovaya Street and, after crossing Pestel, let them off on a narrow avenue lined with trees. The windows of bars and cafés were lit up, while stores were still shuttered and locked, the glass protected by metal cages.
“Drop us here,” Bruno said, directing the driver