“That is extraordinary,” the woman said. “I was under the impression that these fictitious creatures were a threat to your life.”
Verlaine stopped stacking the shards of the cup. “Who is this?” he asked finally.
“My name is Gabriella Lévi-Franche Valko,” the woman said. “I have worked for a very long time to find the letters in your possession.”
Growing more confused, he asked, “How do you know my number?”
“There are many things I know. For example, I know that the creatures you escaped last night are outside your apartment.” Gabriella paused, as if to let this sink in, then said, “If you don’t believe me, Mr. Verlaine, look out your window.”
Verlaine bent before the windowpane, a strand of curly black hair falling in his eyes. Everything looked just as it had minutes before.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“Look left,” Gabriella said. “You will see a familiar black SUV”
Verlaine followed the woman’s instructions. Indeed, at the left, on the corner of Hudson Street, the black Mercedes SUV idled on the street. A tall, dark-clothed man-the same one he’d seen breaking into his car the day before and, if he hadn’t been hallucinating, seen outside his train window-stepped out of the SUV and paced under the streetlight.
“Now, if you look to the right,” Gabriella said, “you will see a white van. I am inside. I’ve been waiting for you since early this morning. At my granddaughter’s request, I have come to help you.”
“And who is your granddaughter?”
“Evangeline, of course,” Gabriella said. “Who else?”
Verlaine craned his neck and spotted a white van tucked into a narrow service alley across the street. The alley was far away, and he could hardly see a thing. As if the caller understood his confusion, a window descended and a petite, leather-gloved hand emerged and gave a peremptory wave.
“What exactly is going on?” Verlaine said, abashed. He walked to the door, turned the bolt, and secured the chain. “Do you mind telling me why you’re watching my apartment?”
“My granddaughter believed you were in danger. She was right. Now I want you to gather Innocenta’s letters and come down immediately,” Gabriella said calmly. “But I advise you to avoid exiting the building through the front door.”
“There’s no other way out,” Verlaine said, uneasy.
“A fire escape, perhaps?”
“The fire escape is visible from the front entrance. They’ll see me as soon as I start down it,” Verlaine said, eyeing the metal skeleton that darkened the corner of the window and worked its way over the front of the building. “Could you please tell me why-”
“My dear,” Gabriella said, interrupting Verlaine, her voice warm, almost maternal. “You will simply have to use your imagination. I advise you to get yourself out of there. Immediately. They will be coming for you at any moment. Actually, they don’t give a damn about you. They will want the letters,” she said quietly. “As you perhaps know, they will not extract them gently.”
As if taking their cue from Gabriella, the second man-as tall and pale-skinned as the first-stepped out of the black SUV, joining the other. Together they crossed the street, walking toward Verlaine’s building.
“You’re right. They’re coming,” Verlaine said. He turned from the window and grabbed the duffel bag, stuffing his wallet, keys, and laptop under the clothes. He took the folder of Innocenta’s original letters from his messenger bag, placed them inside a book of Rothko prints, slid them gently into his duffel bag, and pulled the zipper shut with swift finality. Finally, he said, “What should I do?”
“Wait a moment. I can see them very clearly,” Gabriella said. “Just follow my instructions, and everything will be fine.”
“Maybe I should call the police?”
“Do nothing yet. They are still standing at the entrance. They will see you if you leave now,” Gabriella said, her voice eerily calm, a strange counterpoint to the rush of blood screeching in Verlaine’s ears. “Listen to me, Mr. Verlaine. It is extremely important that you do not move until I tell you.”
Verlaine unlocked the window and heaved it open. A gust of freezing air swept his face. Leaning out the window, he could see the men below. They spoke in low voices and then, inserting something into the lock, pushed the door open, and entered the building with astonishing ease. The heavy door slammed hard behind them.
“Do you have the letters?” Gabriella asked.
“Yes,” Verlaine said.
“Then go. Now. Down the fire escape. I will be waiting.”
Verlaine hung up the phone, threw the duffel bag over his shoulder, and crawled out the window into the icy wind. The metal froze against the warm skin of his palm as he grasped the rusty ladder. With all his effort, he pulled: The ladder clattered to the sidewalk. Pain shot through his hand as the skin stretched, reopening the wound from the barbed-wire fence. Verlaine ignored the pain and climbed down the rungs, his sneakers sliding on the ice-glazed metal. He was nearly to the sidewalk when he heard an explosive crack of wood above. The men had broken down the door of his apartment.
Verlaine dropped to the sidewalk, making sure to protect the duffel bag in the crook of his arm. As he stepped onto the street, the white van pulled to the curb. The door slid open, and an elfin woman with bright red lipstick and a severe black pageboy haircut beckoned for Verlaine to jump into the backseat. “Get in,” Gabriella said, making room. “Hurry.”
Verlaine climbed into the van beside Gabriella as the driver threw the vehicle into gear, rounded the corner, and sped uptown.
“What in the hell is going on?” Verlaine asked, looking over his shoulder, half expecting to find the SUV behind.
Gabriella put her thin, leather-sheathed hand over his cold, trembling one. “I’ve come to help you.”
“Help me with what?”
“My dear, you have no idea of the trouble you’ve brought upon all of us.”
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.