Fifth Avenue, Upper East Side, New York City
Percival waited in the lobby of his apartment building, his sunglasses shielding his eyes from the unbearably bright morning. His mind was wholly absorbed in the situation at hand, one that had suddenly become even more mystifying with Gabriella Lévi-Franche Valko’s involvement. Her presence at Verlaine’s apartment was enough to signal that they had in fact hit upon something significant. They would need to move immediately, before they lost track of Verlaine.
A black Mercedes SUV stopped before the building. Percival recognized the Gibborim that Otterley had dispatched to kill Verlaine early that morning. They sat hunched in the front seat, crude, unquestioning, without the intelligence or curiosity to wonder at Percival and Otterley’s superiority. He recoiled at the thought of riding in the same vehicle with such beings—surely Otterley didn’t expect that he would agree to such an arrangement. In his workings with lower life-forms, there were certain lines he would not cross.
Otterley didn’t have such qualms. She emerged from the backseat composed as ever, her long blond hair tied into a smooth knot, her fur-trimmed ski jacket zipped to her chin, and her cheeks stained pink from the cold. To Percival’s great relief, she said a few words to the Gibborim and the SUV sped away. Only then did Percival step outside to greet his sister for the second time that morning, happily in a less compromised position than before.
“We will need to take my car,” Otterley said. “Gabriella Lévi-Franche Valko saw that vehicle outside Verlaine’s apartment.”
The very articulation of Gabriella’s name withered his resolve. “Did you see her?”
“She has probably given every angelologist in New York the plate numbers,” Otterley said. “We’d better use the Jag. I don’t want to take chances.”
“And what about the beasts?”
Otterley smiled—she, too, disliked working with Gibborim but would never deign to show it. “I’ve sent them ahead. They have a specific area to cover. If they find Gabriella, they have been instructed to seize her.”
“I very much doubt they will have the skill to catch her,” Percival said.
Otterley tossed her car keys to the doorman, who walked off to retrieve the car from a garage around the corner. Standing at the curb, with Fifth Avenue stretching beyond, Percival struggled to breathe. The more desperate he became for air, the more painful it was to inhale, and so he was relieved when the white Jaguar idled before them, exhaust rising from the tail. Otterley slid into the driver’s seat and waited as Percival, whose body ached with the slightest irregular movement, eased delicately into the leather passenger seat, wheezing and gasping for breath. His frayed, rotting wings pressed against his back as the harness shifted. He suppressed an urge to cry out in pain as Otterley put the car in gear and sped into traffic.
While she steered toward the West Side Highway, Percival turned the heat on high, hoping that the warm air would allow him to breathe with more ease. At a traffic light, his sister turned to examine him, her eyes narrowed. She did not speak, but it was clear that she didn’t know what to do with the weak, struggling being who had once been the future of the Grigori family.
Percival removed a handgun from the glove compartment, made sure it was loaded, and tucked it into the inside pocket of his overcoat. The gun was heavy and cold. Running his fingers over it, he wondered what it would feel like to point it at Gabriella’s head, to press it upon the soft spot at her temple, to frighten her. No matter what had happened in the past, no matter how many times he had dreamed of Gabriella, he was not going to allow her to interfere. This time he would kill her himself.