I, Jequon: Part One of the Nephilim Chronicles

by Jeremy Lee James

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  I.

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  II.

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  III.

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  IV.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  V.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  To Be Continued.

  I, JEQUON - PART ONE OF THE NEPHILIM CHRONICLES

  Jeremy Lee James

  Copyright © 2014 Jeremy Lee James

  All rights reserved.

  For more information, contact: info@writeclickmedia.com

  Published by

  Write Click Media

  For Bronwen.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I’d like to thank the following people for their support.

  Claudia Whitsitt, for the feedback, pep talks, and glasses of Cabernet.

  Michael Steven Gregory, for the friendship, insightful comments, and numerous suggestions regarding the cover.

  Chrissie Barnett, for the hospitality, and for keeping MSG out of trouble.

  Laura Taylor, my editor, for countless critical catches, and endless other enhancements.

  James Egan at Bookfly Design, for an awesome cover.

  The entire staff of the Southern California Writers’ Conference, for supporting a truly writer-centric community I’m proud to be a part of.

  Meg, my cat, for keeping me company, and keeping my chair warm.

  Stephen King, Lee Child, Chuck Palahniuk, and Barry Eisler, for the inspiration.

  And all the people I’m forgetting to mention here—sorry! You know who you are.

  Now it came about, when men began to multiply on the face of the land, and daughters were born to them, that the sons of God saw that the daughters of men were beautiful; and they took wives for themselves, whomever they chose. Then the LORD said, "My Spirit shall not strive with man forever, because he also is flesh; nevertheless his days shall be one hundred and twenty years." The Nephilim were on the earth in those days, and also afterward, when the sons of God came in to the daughters of men, and they bore children to them. Those were the mighty men who were of old, men of renown. —Genesis 6:1-4

  CHAPTER ONE

  SARAJEVO TRAIN DEPOT

  You know that bass-heavy techno beat they play whenever a badass motherfucker first shows up onscreen in a Hollywood blockbuster? Where they slow down their trench coat, dark-shades-strut until it’s choppy and lethal? You wouldn’t believe how accurate that is. Almost verbatim the soundtrack cranking in my head right now. And I’ve gotta tell you, it pisses me off I had to wait the better part of 9,000 years to enjoy a synthesizer, or the adrenaline boost from an electric guitar. Tribal drums, the harp, the lyre…it’s just not the same.

  Off the train, briefcase in hand, I let my fellow travelers pass by, eager as they must be to reach their destinations before sunset. Aside from the deadly instrumental in my head, my whole world is three things: don’t quit, don’t die, get answers. First on the list is to find out how these fundamentalist fuck-stains have quadrupled their kill-rate after centuries of merely sporadic success murdering my people.

  Twenty-three hours ago, back in New York, I got a call that promised a new lead.

  “My name is Yuri Kolenkov. Five-hundred-thousand dollars. Cash.”

  The Russian spoke heavily accented English. Not the language anyone who should have this number would use. ‘Dollars’ was rendered dole-irs. ‘Cash,’ cawsh.

  “You bring the money to Sarajevo, and I’ll guard the body a little longer.”

  “Guard who?”

  “His name is Lucian…a few hundred years old, perhaps? Young for your kind.”

  “Understood.”

  I’ve never met this twice-removed cousin of mine, but I am very close to his grandfather, Council member Samsaveel.

  “Twenty-three hours, fifty-nine minutes, and thirty…five seconds. Then I leave him.”

  He gave me an address and I wrote it down.

  “I’ll be there.”

  He’d already hung up.

  With an hour to go until the meet, I’m in no hurry. I take my time, exploring possible avenues of attack, looking for signs of an ambush. No obvious threats, but I stay put on the platform awhile longer anyway and pretend to smoke as I scout the depot for loiterers likewise concealing ill intent. Still clear. I devote one more full minute to counter-surveillance; further delay would only draw suspicion. No one’s paying too much attention to me, so I make my way through the station and head outside in search of a cab.

  The streets are loud with honking horns and revving engines. I stick to the curb and get the attention of a taxi. At six-foot-three-inches and two-hundred-thirty-pounds, I’m no giant—at least not by today’s standards—but in this country, where much of the populace grew up malnourished, I’m a muscled blonde tower.

  A young, stern-faced mother stands beside me, clutching her little girl’s hand even harder than I grip the handle attached to five-hundred G’s. The pig-tailed princess smiles up at me, proud of her tiny painted fingernails. She looks away now as someone on the other side of the street catches her attention.

  “Grandma!”

  Pig Tails waves both of her pudgy arms overhead at an elegantly dressed older woman, who hasn’t yet noticed her granddaughter in the crowd. Perhaps she’s too dignified to make a fuss until she’s closer, or maybe her eyesight isn’t what it used to be. No matter. The girl wriggles free of mom’s hand and darts triumphantly into the oncoming traffic, not a worry in the world.

  I reach for her before she’s pattered more than two steps. I might have made a good father if not for—

  The first bullet hisses harmlessly over my head—a curb higher than my temple—close enough to tousle my hair. The second bullet slices cleanly through the triangular wedge of muscle above my collarbone. A chest shot if I hadn’t tried to save Pig Tails.

  Now it’s nothing but screeching brakes and a blaring horn, mom shrieking no-ooo! behind me, frozen as her pride and joy prances into certain death.

  But she’s safe. In the crook of my arm, gaping up at me with wide eyes. I hear clapping hands, hoots, whistles, and cheers. People applaud my “heroic” act. So far, no one notices the rivulets of blood streaming out of the exit wound and down the same arm that cradles the girl. I turn and hand off Pig Tails to her mother, who’s too stunned to speak. She’s conscious of nothing but her precious, death-cheating Sabine as she repeats the girl’s name over and over and kisses her hair.

  Now I’m starting to feel it.

  I fall into the backseat of the waiting cab which the girl risked everything to hail for me; the driver’s still hyperventilating over the close call.

  “Go.”

  More of a grunt than a request. The pain is intense. It’s only going to get worse once the endorphins wear off.

  “Where to?”

  “I’ll tell you in a minute.”

  I lie down across the length
of the backseat, so my head’s lower than the windows. I’m pretty sure the cabbie sees the mushroom of blood wicking through the leather of my overcoat.

  “Is everything alright, sir?”

  He sounds very alarmed. Hasn’t even remembered to start the meter.

  “Fine. Just give me a minute. Drive wherever.”

  I fish the address Yuri gave me out of my pocket, handing it up to him with a trembling hand. “There. Go there. Quickly.”

  I will myself to ignore the pain. Instead I replay the last sixty seconds.

  The bullets seemed to come from opposite directions. Two gunmen. Suppressed rifles, both; no sound except the turbulence of the first death pellet flying past. The one that hit me punched right through, which made it a jacketed round, the kind snipers use to protect their precision barrels. Typically, a sniper wouldn’t bother silencing his weapon. The extra hardware impedes accuracy, and they’re usually so far away from their target that no one can pinpoint their location anyway. These two must’ve been close then, ready to finish me off in case I didn’t drop—or in case I did drop—and they needed to kill the part of me that doesn’t die so easily.

  The cabbie is losing his nerve.

  “Sir! You are bleeding, sir!”

  There’s no hiding it now. My right sleeve is saturated; droplets fall from the cuff onto my pant leg. My undershirt clings to my spine as it channels the blood from the entry wound down into the groove between my spinal erectors, past my tailbone, and into my ass crack.

  I lie. “I’m fine. Keep driving.”

  “I will take you to a hospital. There is one ahead.”

  “No. Keep driving.”

  “Then you will have to leave my cab, sir. You will ruin my seats. This is my livelihood. I am sorry, sir.”

  The cabbie slows and pulls to the side of the road, his unblinking eyes fixed on me in the rearview. I can’t blame him. And I’m in no condition to argue. I must save my energy. I nod to the mirror and say alright. Crack the lid on the briefcase. Grab a bound stack of crisp hundreds. Ten-grand, USD. Not worth the effort to fiddle with loosing a less generous tip from the bundle. I hand him a significant portion of his yearly earnings and step out.

  “Go get your seats cleaned. And you never saw me.”

  He nods and speeds off. I start walking.

  Here the road parallels the banks of the Milijacka River. From what I remember of the city, the address where I am to meet with Yuri is not far. For the time being, another ambush is unlikely. The shooters only saw the direction I’m traveling and apparently that’s no secret. But getting dropped here, still blocks away from my destination, was pure happenstance. They’d have no way to know in advance where best to position another sniper. Instead, they’ll wait until I’m closer.

  Don’t quit.

  Don’t die.

  Get answers.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I’m very hard to kill. Knowledge that gives me confidence in situations like this. I’ve been shot before. I survived. So I know what I can withstand.

  And what I can’t.

  I’m bleeding out. Simple as that.

  My life isn’t the cliché flashing before my eyes. This is a slower death. Past deeds crawl to recollection. Love lost. Promises. Like the one I made to my father—to all of our fathers, whether they could hear me or not. To outlive His wrath, to spite His judgments with our continued prosperity. Broken promises if I give in to this attempt on my life.

  Damned or not, I’d sooner live. I have maybe fifteen minutes before I go cold and numb, and right now to do something about it, the ever present eternity.

  First things first. Stop the bleeding, or at least slow it down. Change clothes—even if I can survive this, I can’t afford to draw extra attention to myself with blood-soaked attire.

  I cross over an invisible yet tangible line, entering the Turkish Quarter where most of the capital’s hustle and bustle takes place. At this late hour the usual din of haggling merchants and street musicians has given way to laughter and the occasional drunken ballad. There’s a men’s specialty shop adjacent to the alley on my right. They ought to stock something I can use for the bleeding.

  I walk far enough back into the alley so that I’m nearly invisible from the sidewalk, a dark wraith among the shadows. The top of the building is about sixteen feet overhead. I’m hoping there’ll be access on top which isn’t barred up like the front display. I squat down and then explode upward, clear the edge of the roofline just enough to grab on, and struggle to pull myself up.

  Superhero, I’m not. More like genetic freak—human1.5. Still, what would normally be an easy maneuver has me dizzy and gasping. The endorphins have worn off completely. I take a knee, gritting my teeth until the burning from the bullet wound subsides enough to continue.

  Thank our fathers, there’s a skylight near the center of the roof. I crawl over to it on my stomach, remove the metal flashing, and peel away the tar along one side to expose the plastic lip. I wedge a fingernail underneath, and then another, and now a decent grip with most of my left hand. I jerk it upward and the dumpster-lid-sized bubble pops free.

  I attempt a reverse pull-up to lower myself in, but I’m too weak and lightheaded to ensure a soft landing. Halfway down I lose my grip and fall to a mercifully bare patch of floor. I stand up and strip off blood-drenched clothes on my way to the cash register. The machine sits atop a glass display case doubling as a countertop. Inside the case sits exactly what you’d expect at an establishment catering to gentleman: wallets, drinking flasks, cigar cutters, tie clips, handkerchiefs, and decorative lighters. The cans of lighter fluid are an added bonus.

  I pop the lock and slide open the glass access panel at the rear of the case. Reach inside and remove a handkerchief and a lighter. Palming the lighter, I lay the handkerchief flat on top of the glass. I douse it with lighter fluid from one of the cans until it puddles. With the cotton completely saturated, I roll it up so it forms a narrow, flammable cylinder. Search for something I can use to snake the fluid-soaked rag through the hole in my neck. A pencil lying beside the register should do the trick.

  Let the fun begin.

  I take a deep breath and insert the tip of the handkerchief into my punctured trapezius with the sharp end of the pencil.

  The fluid stings. I attempt to distract myself from the excruciating pain with thoughts of better days, of which there are plenty. No-go. The pain has my complete and undivided attention. I tell the pain to go fuck itself and guide the handkerchief-wrapped pencil even deeper into the wound.

  Even though I’m nude and the temperature is probably no more than sixty-five degrees, sweat slicks my forehead. My eyes tear up. I taste stomach acid at the back of my throat. My bowels quiver, threatening to let loose as my body tries to shut down everything except what might help me escape from this demon of agony. It’s everything I can do to stay conscious. I bury the handkerchief even deeper.

  The inflamed flesh shrinks back from the probe as it burrows in, a sound like maggots writhing in spoiled meat. Just when I can endure no more, the tip pokes through on the other side of my neck. I unsheathe the pencil from the handkerchief and pull it free, leaving the fabric in place. Tilting my head away from the injury, I shield my vulnerable cheek with my free hand as I light the handkerchief with the lighter I clasp in the other.

  It erupts into a wedge of orange heat, whooshing like the lost breath from a sucker-punch as it licks at the edges of its own fumy aura. I smell the hairs melt from the back of the hand protecting my face before the flame contracts nearer to the surface of the makeshift fuse.

  Vapor spent, the rag doesn’t burn quickly. The tiny flame inches toward the bullet hole, the sail of a miniature ghost ship propelled by an imperceptible wind.

  The opening of the wound bubbles from the heat. I squeeze my eyes shut so tight against the pain, I’m afraid I’ve crushed my eyeballs.

  For a second, sweet relief…and now horror as I watch with eyes still intact, the flame sputtering
out, the blackened stump of the handkerchief extinguished no more than a millimeter inside the wound.

  Fire requires oxygen (which I must not be getting) in addition to fuel, as does the brain to remember Boy Scout facts like these. Hypovolaemic shock, it’s called, resulting from blood loss. I’ve seen it before, just never on the receiving end.

  Am I already this gone?

  When I lost her all those years ago—lost them—I consoled myself. I told myself I had forever to create another warrior in my image. The lies we embrace in order to carry on.

  I’ll have to pull out the handkerchief and start over. And I must be quick about it. My pulse is dangerously elevated now. I’m losing blood even faster from the rear of the wound as my heart struggles to maintain circulation to the rest of my body. The more blood I lose, the harder its job.

  I shiver. My limbs feel heavy.

  Remember your father, Jequon! Watching you from his chains.

  I turn up the music in my head to stay awake, to refocus, to stay alive one heartbeat at a time.

  With my singed hand, I reach over my injured shoulder and tug the still protruding handkerchief free out the backside. The pain is so intense, nothing else exists. It merges with me until there is no more separation. I am the anguish. I am…

  Where am I?

  A shiny metal canister materializes in front of me as a hand steadies a flickering blue-crowned Zippo beneath it. Minutes pass…or is it hours?

  Father? Is that you?

  The hand holding the flask brings it closer to my face and then behind me where I can’t see it. I hear the sizzle and hiss of blistering flesh. Then the hand returns with the flask. Reheats it. Raises it again and presses the metal to the right-front side of my neck. It feels good, like an ice pack. I smell roasting meat and it reminds me of when I was a boy and we hunted mammoths.

  CHAPTER THREE

  In the waiting area beneath the stage it was cramped and hot. Henrik dabbed his forehead for at least the tenth time and frowned at all the makeup which clung to the cloth. Why is he unaffected by the heat? Then Henrik noticed the custom tailored, ultra-light-weight silk suit the pastor wore.