The Grigori penthouse, Upper East Side, New York City
Percival demanded that the curtains be drawn, so as to protect his eyes from the light. He had walked home at sunrise, and the pale morning sky had been enough to cause his head to ache. When the room was sufficiently dark, he discarded his clothes, throwing the tuxedo jacket, the fouled white shirt, and his trousers on the floor, and stretched out upon a leather couch. Without a word the Anakim unbuckled his harness, a laborious procedure that he endured with patience. Then she poured oil onto his legs and massaged him from ankle to thigh, working her fingers into the muscles until they burned. The creature was very pretty and very silent, a combination that suited Anakim, especially the females, whom he found remarkably stupid. Percival stared at her as she moved her short, fat fingers up and down his legs. The burning headache matched the heat in his legs. Deliriously tired, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
The exact origin of his disorder was still unknown to even the most experienced of his family’s doctors. Percival had hired the very best medical team, flying them to New York from Switzerland, Germany, Sweden, and Japan, and all they could tell him was what everyone already knew: A virulent viral infection had traveled through a generation of European Nephilim, attacking the nervous and pulmonary systems. They recommended treatments and therapies to promote healing in his wings and to loosen his muscles, so that he might breathe and walk with more ease. Daily massages were one of the more pleasant elements of the treatments. Percival called the Anakim to his room to massage his legs numerous times each day, and along with his deliveries of scotch and sedatives, he had come to depend upon her hourly presence.
Under normal circumstances he would not have allowed a wretched servant woman into his private chambers at all—he had not done so in the many hundreds of years before his illness—but the pain had become unbearable in the last year, the muscles so cramped that his legs had begun to twist into an unnatural position. The Anakim stretched each leg until the tendons loosened and massaged the muscles, pausing when he flinched. He watched her hands press into his pale skin. She soothed him, and for this he was grateful. His mother had abandoned him, treating him like an invalid, and Otterley was out doing the work Percival should be doing. There was no one left but an Anakim to help him.
As he relaxed, he drifted into a light sleep. For a brief, buoyant moment, he recalled the pleasure of his late-night stroll. When the woman was dead, he had closed her eyes and stared at her, running his fingers against her cheek. In death her skin had taken on an alabaster hue. To his delight, he saw Gabriella Lévi-Franche clearly—her black hair and her powdery skin. For a moment he had possessed her once again.
As he drifted into the delicate space between waking and sleeping, Gabriella appeared to him like a luminous messenger. In his fantasy she told him to come back to her, that all was forgiven, that they would continue where they had ended. She told him that she loved him, words that no one—human or Nephilim—had said before. It was an inordinately painful dream, and Percival must have spoken in his sleep—he startled awake and found the Anakim servant staring intently at him, her large yellow eyes glimmering with tears, as if she had come to understand something about him. She softened her touch and said a few words of comfort. She pitied him, he realized, and the presumption of such intimacy angered Percival—he ordered the beast to leave at once. She nodded submissively, put the cap on the bottle of oil, collected his soiled clothing, and left in an instant, shutting him in a cocoon of darkness and despair. He lay awake, feeling the sting of the maid’s touch on his skin.
Soon the Anakim returned, delivering a glass of scotch on a lacquered tray. “Your sister is here, sir,” she said. “I will tell her that you are sleeping if you wish.”
“No need to lie for him. I can see that he is awake,” Otterley said, brushing past the Anakim and sitting at Percival’s side. With a flip of her wrist, she dismissed the servant. Taking the massage oil, Otterley uncapped it and poured some in the palm of her hand. “Turn over,” she said.
Percival obeyed his sister’s orders, turning on his stomach. As Otterley massaged his back, he wondered what would become of her—and of their family—after the disease had taken him. Percival had been their great hope, his majestic, masculine golden wings promising that one day he would ascend to a position of power, superseding even his father’s avaricious ancestors and his mother’s noble blood. Now he was a wingless, feeble disappointment to his family. He had envisioned himself to be a great patriarch, the father of an expansive number of Nephilistic children. His sons would grow to be endowed with the colorful wings of Sneja’s family, gorgeous plumage that would bring honor to the Grigoris. His daughters would have the qualities of the angels—they would be psychic and brilliant and trained in the celestial arts. Now, in his decline, he had nothing. He understood how foolish it had been to waste hundreds of years in the pursuit of pleasure.
That Otterley was equally disappointing made his failure even harder to face. Otterley had neglected to bring the Grigori family an heir, just as Percival had failed to grow into the angelic being his mother had so longed for him to be.
“Tell me you’ve come with good news,” Percival said, flinching as Otterley rubbed the delicate raw flesh near the wing nubs. “Tell me that you’ve recovered the map and killed Verlaine and there is nothing more to worry about.”
“My dear brother,” Otterley said, leaning close as she massaged his shoulders. “You have really made a mess of things. First, you hired an angelologist.”
“I did no such thing. He is nothing other than a simple art historian,” Percival said.
“Next, you let him take the map.”
“Architectural drawings,” Percival corrected.
“Then you creep out in the middle of the night and put yourself in this terrible state.” Otterley stroked the rotted stubs of his wings, a sensation Percival found delicious even as he wished to push his sister’s hand away.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mother knows you left, and she has asked me to watch you very closely. What would happen if you were to collapse on the street? How would we explain your condition to the doctors at Lenox Hill?”
“Tell Sneja there is no need to worry,” Percival said.
“But we do have reason to worry,” Otterley said, wiping her hands on a towel. “Verlaine is still alive.”
“I thought you sent the Gibborim to his apartment?”
“I did,” Otterley said. “But things have taken a rather unexpected turn. Whereas yesterday we were simply worried that Verlaine would make off with information, now we know he is much more dangerous.”
Percival sat up and faced his sister. “How could he possibly be dangerous? Our Anakim poses more of a threat than a man like Verlaine.”
“He is working with Gabriella Lévi-Franche Valko,” Otterley said, pronouncing each word with zeal. “Clearly he is one of them. Everything we’ve done to protect ourselves from the angelologists has been for nothing. Get up,” she said, throwing the harness at Percival. “Get dressed. You are coming with me.”