St. Rose Convent, Milton, New York
Otterley backed the Jaguar into a cove outside the convent grounds, hiding the car deep in the foliage of evergreens. She cut the engine and stepped out into the snow, leaving the keys in the ignition. They had agreed that it would be best for Percival—who could not be of much use in any physical ordeal—to stay at a distance. Without a word to him, Otterley closed the car door and walked quickly along the icy path to the convent.
Percival knew enough about Gabriella to understand that capturing her would take a coordinated effort. At his insistence Otterley had put in a call to the Gibborim to check on their progress and had learned that they were prowling a few miles south, on the country roads north of the Tappan Zee Bridge. He doubted that they would make much headway with Gabriella, and he was prepared to step in himself if the Gibborim failed. It was imperative to stop Gabriella before she made it to the convent.
Percival stretched his legs, cramped from the narrow space of the car, and peered through the dust-flecked windshield. The convent loomed ahead, a great brick-and-stone edifice barely visible through the forest. If their timing was right, the Gibborim that Sneja had sent—she had promised at least one hundred—should be stationed in the area already, awaiting Otterley’s signal to attack. Taking his phone from his pocket, Percival dialed his mother, but the line rang and rang. He’d tried to call her every hour all morning without luck. He’d left messages with the Anakim, when she bothered to answer, but she had clearly forgotten to relay them to Sneja.
Percival opened the car door and stepped into the freezing morning air, frustrated with the impotence of his position. He should have organized the entire operation himself. It should be him leading the Gibborim into the convent. Instead his younger sister was in charge and he was left to try to get through to their aloof mother, who was at that moment likely to be soaking in her Jacuzzi without a thought in her head of his condition.
He walked to the edge of the highway, looking for signs of Gabriella, before dialing his mother’s line again. To his surprise, someone picked up on the first ring.
“Yes,” said a hoarse, domineering voice that he recognized at once.
“We’re here, Mother,” Percival said. He could hear music and voices in the background and knew at once that she was in the middle of one of her parties.
“And the Gibborim?” Sneja asked. “They are ready?”
“Otterley has gone to prepare them.”
“Alone?” Sneja said, reproach in her voice. “However will your sister manage it alone? There are nearly one hundred creatures to command.”
Percival felt as if his mother had slapped him. Surely she knew that his sickness prevented him from fighting. Relinquishing control to Otterley was humiliating and required a level of restraint he’d thought Sneja would admire.
“That won’t be necessary,” he said, keeping his anger in check. “Otterley is more than capable. I am watching the entrance to the convent, to be sure there isn’t interference.”
“Well,” Sneja said, “whether she is capable or not is rather beside the point.”
Percival considered the tone of his mother’s voice, trying to understand the message it was meant to imply. “Has she proven otherwise?”
“Darling, she doesn’t have anything to prove herself with,” Sneja said. “For all her bluster, our Otterley is in a terrible predicament.”
“I really have no idea what you mean,” Percival said. In the distance the faintest stream of smoke began to rise from the convent, signaling that the attack had begun. His sister seemed to be managing quite fine without him.
“When was the last time you saw your sister’s wings?” Sneja asked.
“I don’t know,” Percival said. “It’s been ages.”
“I will tell you the last time you saw them,” Sneja said. “It was 1848, at her coming-out ball in Paris.”
Percival recalled the event clearly. Otterley’s wings were new, and, like all young Nephilim, she had displayed them with great pride. They had been multicolored, like Sneja’s wings, but very small. It was expected that they would grow full with time.
Sneja continued, “If you have wondered why it has been so long since Otterley has shown her wings properly, it is because they did not develop. They are tiny and useless, the wings of a child. She cannot fly, and she certainly cannot display them. Can you imagine how ridiculous Otterley would look if she were to open such appendages?”
“I had no idea,” Percival said, incredulous. Despite the resentment he felt for his sister, he was deeply protective of Otterley.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Sneja said. “You don’t seem to notice much but your own pleasure and your own suffering. Your sister has tried to hide her predicament from all of us for more than a century. But the truth of the matter is, she is not like you or me. Your wings were glorious, once upon a time. And my wings are incomparable. Otterley is a lower breed.”
“You think she is incapable of directing the Gibborim,” Percival said, understanding at last why their mother had told him Otterley’s secret. “You think she will lose control of the attack.”
“If only you could assume your rightful role, my son,” Sneja said, her voice filling with disappointment, as if she had already resigned herself to Percival’s failure. “If only it were you taking up our cause. Perhaps we—”
Unable to listen to another word, Percival disconnected the call. Examining the highway, he saw the blacktop stretch away from him, twisting through the trees and disappearing around a bend. There was nothing he could do to assist Otterley. He was helpless to restore the glory of his family.