Goodreads helps you keep track of books you want to read. Want to Read saving…. Want to Read Currently Reading Read. Other editions.
|Published (Last):||5 February 2005|
|PDF File Size:||13.21 Mb|
|ePub File Size:||12.28 Mb|
|Price:||Free* [*Free Regsitration Required]|
Purchase a copy of. Also available:. Published by. Doubleday Canada. A ngelopolis. T he scientist examined the girl, his fingers pressing into her skin. She felt his touch against her shoulder blades, the knobs of her spine, the flat of her back. The movements were. She watched the sunlight fall through the windows, blessing the sterile room with color and warmth, and felt a presence watching over her, as if a spirit had descended to guard her.
Her mother liked to tell her stories of enchanted kingdoms and sleeping beauties and brave knights ready to fight for good; she spoke of gods who transformed into swans and beautiful boys who blossomed into flowers and women who grew into trees; she whispered that angels existed on earth as well as in heaven, and that there were some people who, like the angels, could fly. The girl always listened to these stories, never quite knowing if they were true.
But there was one thing she did believe: In every fairy tale, the princess woke and the swan transformed back into Zeus and the knight overcame evil. In a moment, with a wave of a wand or the casting of a spell, the nightmare ended and a new era began. The First Circle. Verlaine pushed through the barrier of gendarmes, making his way toward the body.
It was nearly midnight, the neighborhood deserted, and yet the entire perimeter of. A floodlight had been set up in a cor- ner of the scene, the harsh illumination revealing a mutilated body resting in a pool of electric blue blood. The features of the victim were unreadable, the body broken and bloodied, her arms and legs angling at unnatural positions like branches cracked from a tree. He had studied the creature as it died, watching the wings unfold over its body.
The wounds were severe—a deep cut to the head and another to the chest—and yet it seemed that the creature would never stop struggling, that its deter- mination to survive was endless, that it would fight on and on, even as blood seeped over the ground in a thick dark syrup.
As he looked over his shoulder, his jaw grew tense. Beyond the ring of police stood every variety of creature—a living encyclopedia of beings who would kill him if they knew he could see them for what they were. He paused, assuming the cold, appraising position of a scholar as he cataloged the creatures in his mind: There were congregations of Mara angels, the beautiful and doomed prostitutes whose gifts were such a temptation to humans; Gusian angels, who.
He could detect the distinguishing features of Anakim angels—the sharp fingernails, the wide forehead, the slightly irregular skeletal structure.
He saw it all with a relentless clarity that lingered in his mind even as he turned back to the frenzy surrounding the murder. He tried to focus upon the ironwork of the Eiff el Tower, to steady himself, but the creatures consumed his attention. He could not take his eyes off their wings fluttering against the inky darkness of the night. Verlaine had discovered his ability to see the creatures ten years before. The skill was a gift—very few people could actually see an- gel wings without extensive training.
Now Verlaine could not block out the colored light rising around the angelic creatures, the fields of energy that separated these beings from the flat, colorless spaces occupied by humans. He found himself tracking them as they moved around the Champ de Mars, noting their movements even while wishing to shut out their hallucinatory pull. Sometimes he was sure that he was going crazy, that the crea- tures were his personal demons, that he lived in a custom-made circle of hell in which an endless variety of devils were paraded before him, as if amassed for the purpose of taunting and torturing him.
But these were the kinds of thoughts that could land him in a sanitarium. He had to be careful to keep his balance, to remember that he saw things at a higher frequency than normal people, that his gift was something he must cultivate and protect even as it hurt him. Bruno, his friend and mentor, the man who had brought him from New York and trained him as an angel hunter, had given him pills to calm his nerves, and although Verlaine tried to take as few as possi- ble, he found himself reaching for an enamel box in his jacket pocket and tapping out two white pills.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned. Bruno stood behind him, his expression severe. He unbuttoned his jacket—a vintage yellow s polyester sport coat of question- able taste—and stepped close to the body. He held up a plastic card. Verlaine took the card. His heart beat hard in his chest as he realized that it belonged to Evangeline Cac- ciatore. He took a deep breath before turning back to Bruno. He knew that everything—his rela- tionship with Bruno, his connection to the Angelogical Society, the course of his life from that point forward—would depend upon how he handled himself in the next ten minutes.
The features of the woman were utterly unrecognizable. He remembered the first time he had seen Evangeline. She had been both beautiful and somber at once, looking at him with her large green eyes as if he were a thief come to steal their sacred texts. She had been suspicious of his motives and fierce in her determina- tion to keep him out. Then he made her laugh and her tough exte- rior had crumbled. That moment between them had been burned into him, and no matter how he tried, he had never been able to forget Evangeline.
It had been over a decade since they had stood together in the library at St. Rose Convent, books open before them, both of them unaware of the true nature of the world. Indeed, no one knew that she was one of the creatures. It was, he realized now, the only way to remain faithful to the woman he loved.
P aris was full of angelologists and, as such, one of the most dangerous places in the universe for an Emim angel like Eno, who had a tendency toward recklessness. Like the rest of her. She wore heavy black eye makeup, red lipstick, and black leather, and often wore her black wings openly, unafraid, daring angel- ologists to see them. This would be their world soon. The Grigoris had promised her this. These idiots often mistook Golobiums for Emim and Emim for the more pure creatures like the Grigoris.
Hunters seemed to be on ev- ery corner lately, watching, waiting, ready to take their prey into custody. For those who could detect the hunters, life in Paris was merely inconvenient.
For those who could not, each movement through the city was a deadly game. Of course Eno had strict rules of engagement, and her first and most important rule was to leave the risk of being captured to oth- ers. She understood that sometimes it was best to hide in plain sight. She would be going back to her masters as soon as possible now that her work in Paris was fin- ished.
Evangeline was unlike any other Nephil she had seen before. According to her masters, Evangeline was a child of the Grigori, but she had none of the distinguishing characteristics of an angel of her lineage. She had been raised among regular people, had been abandoned by the Nephilim, and—from everything that Eno had observed—was dangerously sympathetic to the ways of humanity. The Grigoris wanted Evangeline dead. Eno never let her masters down.
And they, she was certain, would not let her down either. The Grigoris would take her home to Russia, where she would blend into the masses of Emim angels. In Paris, she was too conspicuous. Now that her work was done, she wanted to leave this dangerous and loathsome city. She strolled through the fair and then ventured into the throngs in the fields nearby. She liked to be drawn into the rush of human society, the exuberant energy of their futile existence.
In the course of her stroll, she noticed a handsome Englishman staring at her from across the Champ de Mars. From his soft voice and gentlemanly man- ner, she assumed him to be more elevated than most human beings. He held her hand gently, as if she were too delicate to touch, all the while examining her with the care of a jeweler appraising a diamond.
Human desire was something she found fascinating—its intensity, the way love controlled and shaped their lives. This man desired her. Eno found this amusing. She could still recall his hair, his dark eyes, the dashing figure he cut in his suit and hat.
She tried to gauge whether the man recognized her for what she was. He led her away from the crowds, and when they were alone behind a hedge, he looked into her eyes. She marveled at his transformation, the changeable nature of human desire, the way he could love and hate her at once. Sud- denly the man withdrew his dagger and lunged at her. Eno reacted quickly, jumping aside, and the knife missed its mark: In- stead of her heart, the soldier sliced a gash across her shoulder, cut- ting through her dress and into her body, leaving the flesh to fold away from her bone like a piece of lace.
Eno had turned on him with force, crushing the bones of his throat between her fingers until his eyes hardened to pale stones. She pulled him behind the trees and destroyed all traces of what she had found beautiful in him: His lovely eyes, his skin, the delicate fleshy curl of his ear, the fingers that had—only minutes before—given her pleasure. The cut had healed, but she was left with a scar the shape of a crescent moon.
Every so often she would stand before a mirror ex- amining the faint line, to remind herself of the treachery that hu- mans were capable of performing. She realized, after reading an. She had been led into a trap. Eno had been tricked. This man was long dead, but she could still hear his voice in her ear, the heat of his breath as he called her a beast.
The word beast was embedded in her mind, a seed that grew in her, freeing her from every restraint. From that moment on her work as a mercenary be- gan to please her more and more with each new victim.
She could smell a hunter, feel him, sense his desire to capture and slaugh- ter her.
Angelopolis by Danielle Trussoni
Angelology: A Novel by Danielle Trussoni Synopsis: A thrilling epic about an ancient clash reignited in our time- between a hidden society and heaven's darkest creatures There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bore children to them. Now, at twenty-three, her discovery of a letter from the famous philanthropist Abigail Rockefeller to the late mother superior of Saint Rose Convent plunges Evangeline into a secret history that stretches back a thousand years: an ancient conflict between the Society of Angelologists and the monstrously beautiful descendants of angels and humans, the Nephilim. For the secrets these letters guard are desperately coveted by the once-powerful Nephilim, who aim to perpetuate war, subvert the good in humanity, and dominate mankind. Generations of angelologists have devoted their lives to stopping them, and their shared mission, which Evangeline has long been destined to join, reaches from her bucolic abbey on the Hudson to the apex of insular wealth in New York, to the Montparnasse cemetery in Paris and the mountains of Bulgaria. Rich in history, full of mesmerizing characters, and wondrously conceived, Angelology blends biblical lore, the myth of Orpheus and the Miltonic visions of Paradise Lost into a riveting tale of ordinary people engaged in a battle that will determine the fate of the world. Come On, Let's Speak Tagalog!
Purchase a copy of. Also available:. Published by. Doubleday Canada. A ngelopolis.
Angelology: A Novel by Danielle Trussoni Synopsis: A thrilling epic about an ancient clash reignited in our time- between a hidden society and heaven's darkest creatures There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bore children to them. Now, at twenty-three, her discovery of a letter from the famous philanthropist Abigail Rockefeller to the late mother superior of Saint Rose Convent plunges Evangeline into a secret history that stretches back a thousand years: an ancient conflict between the Society of Angelologists and the monstrously beautiful descendants of angels and humans, the Nephilim. For the secrets these letters guard are desperately coveted by the once-powerful Nephilim, who aim to perpetuate war, subvert the good in humanity, and dominate mankind. Generations of angelologists have devoted their lives to stopping them, and their shared mission, which Evangeline has long been destined to join, reaches from her bucolic abbey on the Hudson to the apex of insular wealth in New York, to the Montparnasse cemetery in Paris and the mountains of Bulgaria.