Angelopolis by Danielle Trussoni Read Free Book Online

electric stunning device, sending a stream of electricity at the angel until the wings were immobilized. The stunned creature would lose control and fall to the ground, where the angel hunter would bind it. Verlaine felt a rush of panic at the thought of harming Evangeline. Although the method was meant to simply stun the furcula, the force of the electricity could cause enormous pain.
    “Don’t shoot,” Verlaine whispered, panic making him feel unsteady as he moved across the slate tiles toward Bruno.
    “It’s not Evangeline I’m after,” Bruno said under his breath.
    Eno yanked Evangeline to her feet, wrapped an arm around her waist, and, with a push of her wings, flew into the night. Bruno and Verlaine stood in silence, watching Eno ascend. It seemed to Verlaine that a part of himself was in Eno’s hands, that as she moved farther and farther into the sky, he, too, was beginning to fade away. When Bruno put his hand on Verlaine’s shoulder, Verlaine wanted to believe that his mentor understood his burning anger, his rage, his need for revenge. “We’re going after them,” Verlaine said.
    “It’s useless to try to track Eno in Paris,” Bruno said, as he walked to the edge of the roof and began to climb down to the balcony. “If we want to capture her, we’ll have to hunt her on her own territory.”

The Second Circle
    LUST

Winter Palace, State Hermitage Museum, St. Petersburg
    I f Vera Varvara were permitted to do as she wished, she would leave her office, with its chipping white plaster and disorderly papers, and walk through the vast Baroque hallways of the Winter Palace. She would make her way through the ancient corridors, with their gilded mirrors and cut crystal chandeliers, free as a child in a palace built of rock candy. She would cross the immense Palace Square, walk under the arches of the southern façade, and wander to the museum, where a flash of her ID card would open every door. Among paintings and tapestries and porcelains and statues—all the beautiful things amassed by the Romanovs during their three-hundred-year rule of Russia—she would feel as unfettered as a princess.
    Instead she twisted her long blond hair into a chignon, went to the window, and pushed the pane open. There were angelic creatures below; she could feel them lingering, their presence like a high frequency vibrating her ear. She ignored them and let the chill night wind sweep over her. A lifetime in the swampy climate of St. Petersburg had given her a strong constitution, one that resisted every kind of illness and allowed her to get through harsh winters without much discomfort. Vera was neither tall nor short, thin nor fat, beautiful nor plain. In fact, she considered herself to be a perfect example of physical mediocrity, and this knowledge empowered her to live entirely in her mind, to push herself intellectually, to forget the frivolous lives led by so many women she knew—lives filled with shopping and husbands and children—and to excel in her work. In this regard, she had a difficult time coming down to the level of the people she met on the street; she simply didn’t want to hear about their everyday successes and failures. An old boyfriend had once complained that her mind was like a metal trap—it hung open, inviting one to engage, and then clamped down hard on whoever dared come inside. She had never had a relationship with a man for more than a month or two, and even that duration of time she found to be cloying.
    Leaning forward, Vera craned her neck outside, taking in the green-and-white marble of the Winter Palace, the onion dome rising in the distance. The river Neva, floes of ice floating and sinking, rushed by. All that she found ugly about St. Petersburg—the Communist apartment blocs, the gaudy trappings of the nouveaux riches abutting the glaring poverty, the lack of political freedom of Putin’s government—seemed far away when she was ensconced in her tiny corner of the Winter Palace.