Beneath Lausanne Cathedral, in Switzerland, there is a secret buried before time began, something unknown to angels and men, until now... Marc Rochat watches over the city at night from the belfry of the cathedral. He lives in a world of shadows and "beforetimes" and imaginary beings. Katherine Taylor, call girl and daydreamer, is about to discover that her real-life fairy tale is too good to be true. Jay Harper, private detective, wakes up in a crummy hotel room with no memory. When the telephone rings and he's offered a job, he knows he has no choice but to accept. Three lives, one purpose: save what's left of paradise before all hell breaks loose. “A seductive cosmic thriller stoked by historic fact, an ancient Jewish religious text, and a literary classic... Steele’s lavishly atmospheric, witty, bloody, and swashbuckling tale of age-old struggles for dominion between angels and demons is the propitious first book in an ambitious series.”— Booklist (starred)     “An imaginative metaphysical thriller… Steele keeps his tale tantalizingly ambiguous, casting it with fey characters and skillfully concealing until the climax whether apparent weird events haven’t been manipulated to make them seem so. This solidly plotted tale, the first in a trilogy, will appeal to readers who like a hint of uncanny in their fiction.”— Publishers Weekly “A first novel (and first in a series) from Steele, for years a master cameraman for Independent Television News and author of War Junkie, an underground classic; really smart work for serious thriller readers.”— Library Journal   “Reads like Paradise Lost by way of John Connolly, although Steele, formerly a war reporter, brings hard-edged modernity to this timeless tale as he roots his depiction of evil in the contemporary world. Clever, stylish and epic in scale, it’s a tremendously satisfying debut.”— Irish Times JON STEELE is an award-winning journalist and author of  The Watchers  and  Angel City . Born in Spokane, Washington, he traveled the world, working as a cameraman for Independent Television News. After a twenty-year career, Steele wrote the critically acclaimed  War Junkie . He cowrote, codirected, and shot  Baker Boys: Inside the Surge,  a documentary about an American combat unit in Iraq. He lives in Switzerland. One Marc Rochat pulled aside the lace curtains and watched the rain fall through lamplight and splash on the cobblestones of Escaliers du Marché. Tiny streams formed between the cobblestones and ran down to bigger streams of rain from Rue Mercerie. The two roads, narrow and angled at a steep slant, met just beyond the windows of Café du Grütli. Rochat breathed against the cold glass; he drew a rawboned face in the quick-spreading fog. “I see you, I see you hiding in the rain. You can’t fool me. En garde .” He wiped away the face and turned back to the warmth of the café. It was a familiar place to Rochat. He came here most evenings for his supper. He liked the round lamps hanging from the ceiling that glowed like full moons. He liked the photographs of Lausanne from longtimes ago hanging on the walls. He liked the chalk script menu above the bar that never changed. Monsieur Dufaux, the owner of the café, washed the slate and rewrote the menu each day, but the letters were always the same and always in the same place, just like the patrons. Madame Budry with her sixth glass of Villette, Monsieur Duvernay with his Friday night filets de porc avec pommes frites , the Lausanne University professor and his wife who rarely spoke to each other but read many books, the Algerian street cleaners who stopped in each night for espresso and cigarettes. And Monsieur Junod, pushing through the curtains at the door just now, followed by his little white dog on a lead. Always at the same time, always taking the same table in the corner. And his dog always jumping on the next chair to look about the café as if demanding service. Rochat liked to imagine the little dog dressed in a very nice suit, knife and fork in his paws, and eating sausages and— “Still coming down, is it, Marc?” Rochat saw Monsieur Dufaux standing at his table, drying his hands on the dish towel tucked in his apron strings. “Pardon, monsieur?” “The rain. Still coming down, is it?” “ Oui , and winter’s trying to sneak into Lausanne tonight. He thinks I can’t see him.” “Who?” “Winter.” Rochat pulled aside the curtain and pointed to the dripping dark beyond the glass. “Out there, hiding in the rain. He thinks I can’t see him, but I do.” Monsieur Dufaux looked through the window. “Such an ugly night. And it’s cold. I feel it in my bones.” “I can blow on the glass and draw him in the fog so you can see.” “Who?” “Winter. Do you want to see?” “ Non, mon cher , that’s all right. But tell you what: You see old man winter from the belfry tonight, you chase him away for me. Would you like a dessert, espresso?” “Non, merci.” Monsieur Dufaux collected Rochat’s finished plate, pulled the white cloth from h