Something rattled overhead. Henrik ducked instinctively, bringing his hands forward to guard his manhood.
An air conditioning duct.
Without clothes on to trap his body heat, the piped-in air chilled him. He shivered. So much for a calm front, Henrik thought. But thanks to a cool day and a sensitive thermostat, the unit kicked off less than a minute later. He stood straight again and counted the seconds until the artificial breeze no longer assaulted him. Four. The vent was far overhead, implying an auditorium of some sort, which the slight echo also confirmed.
“What is this? I was told to prepare for my acceptance into your Brotherhood. What is it you want from me?”
Henrik was not only afraid, but genuinely baffled. In the weeks since they’d first approached him outside the revival in Irvine, he’d been tasked with translating a succession of digital texts composed in a language entirely unknown to modern linguists. Not only had he succeeded, but he’d produced an alphabet for this new tongue, gratis. In fact, better than an alphabet. A Rosetta Stone, still incomplete, but sufficient to render English from everything they’d thrown his way. Henrik was certain no one else in the world could have pulled off this feat in such a short amount of time. His new employers had been pleased. So much so, they promised him membership to their clandestine society. The affiliation itself meant little to him. It was the access he cared about. If these cultish figures were to be believed, they had in their possession an ancient set of holy texts, which provided irrefutable evidence in support of Henrik’s Post-Tribulation Rapture doctrine.
“We’ll discuss that in a moment,” the Bostonian said, as if one more moment of life was all they could guarantee him, “first, let’s talk about Cynthia.”
Sinnn-thia.
Her name whispered across his synapses; flooded his visual cortex with remembered morsels of her body; stark flashbulb-lit fantasies erupting from the deepest caverns of his Id. A hot weight started to build where moments before he’d felt shriveled and inconsequential.
No. Please, God, no.
He clenched his eyes shut as tight as he could and grasped for an annoyance or an irritation. A puzzle. A theorem. Anything that would throw a monkey-wrench of logic into the click-whir machinery of his animal brain. He imagined playing tennis or golf, even crocheting a lap warmer. But she stood behind every volley, in front of every stroke. Too hot to be bothered with a blanket.
“For The Lord our God exposes all sin; before Him we tremble as naked babes. Amen.”
The Bostonian continued. “I thought we’d made clear the sacrifices necessary for His Chosen. But you seem unwilling to part with temptation.”
Henrik bit at the sides of his tongue until the pain was too much. And then he bit harder. Hoping to trade the two sensations. It was no use. His growing erection barred any chance for denial—though in truth—it was his prolonged abstinence which made his arousal so uncontrollable. He hadn’t slept with Cynthia, he’d only fondled her—a rare slip—though he’d steadfastly refused her offers to reciprocate. He’d even stopped masturbating in allegiance to their codes of conduct. Why couldn’t they recognize his commitment to them? And to chastise him over his relationship with Cynthia? The one woman he’d been able to spare from his admittedly deviant impulses long enough to earn her love? They had no idea the sacrifices he’d made.
Henrik turned away from them, ashamed. He wanted to tear off the hood and sprint away from his accusers.
And why don’t I? he wondered. Would they try and stop me? Kill me? He couldn’t identify them. So why bother? Why disobey one of God’s commandments?
“Don’t turn your back on us!”
The French Canadian.
Henrik didn’t run. He’d continue to suffer through their mind games and their humiliations, because he wanted to know the secrets of their most guarded texts just as much as they did. No. More than they did.
Let them laugh, he thought. Let them judge. They need me. After all, they’d approached him, had they not, with the same humble glint of awe and respect for his knowledge that Cynthia had shown him not three months prior at a similar event. And he’d far exceeded the Brotherhood’s expectations.
He faced them. Boldly. The French Canadian had betrayed more than just his origin when he’d spoken. His authoritative tone couldn’t quite hide the desperation underlying it. Henrik imagined his interrogators encircling him like wealthy Roman spectators. Hooded, dressed in robes, holding candles.
Maybe this is all bullshit.
They were manipulating him. Henrik now felt sure of it. Access to their most secret scriptures, the carrot. Intimidation, their stick. He smirked. This whole ordeal reminded him of pledge hazing at a fraternity. They sought his loyalty. They wanted to induce in him the same rationalizations a million college freshman wanting to go Greek endured. Gee, if I’m willing to serenade the campus while dressed in a diaper, then I must really want to be in this fraternity.
Basic Cognitive Dissonance Theory. Psychology 101. Not that Henrik had ever been in a fraternity; he’d long since accepted the vapidity of earthly affiliations, and he took comfort in knowing God had on reserve for him a most exalted position in heaven…after his celestial purpose had been fulfilled. A purpose which, Henrik reminded himself, this latest trial was surely just a part.
So it must be, he reasoned, that God, in His unfathomable wisdom, had kept hidden His most powerful revelations in the possession of this odd sect, doubly shrouded in a language no one knows but Him. And now He’d placed His faithful servant at the doorstep of His mysteries, to reveal His Word at the perfect, predestined time. Henrik relished the opportunity.
Let them play their games, he thought. It’ll be over soon enough. They need me.
Then he heard the singing friction of an unsheathed sword. The blade hummed unseen, close enough to kill. The sound sliced cleanly through the tremulous reserve of confidence he’d managed to build only seconds before. It did for his erection what his attempts at distraction could not.
“We’ve decided you’re not fit to walk among His Chosen, Henrik.”
This from the speaker-distorted voice of the Texan.
”He welcomes no blemish; let him who is pure walk with our Lord. Let no stain taint His robes. For He gathers the righteous among Him, and casts the sinners into the pit of everlasting fire. Glory be to Him who is Pure. Amen.”
Henrik cringed at their damning chant, expecting death at any moment, yet still unable to reconcile this apparent end with the stark contrast of God’s plan for him.
But then the Bostonian spoke up again. “And yet, you remain useful to us…”
As he trailed off the Texan added, “Though only to the extent you’re loyal to our cause.”
His invisible executioner returned the sword to its scabbard. A reprieve. God intervening on my behalf. Like Daniel in the lion’s den, Henrik thought.
“You have my loyalty. I swear!”
“Of course, we do.” The Bostonian paused. “We have Cynthia.”
The Englishman added, “And it’s your loyalty, Henrik, that keeps her alive.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Sir, anything to drink?”
The flight attendant steals my attention from the ground 35,000 feet below.
“Yes, I’ll have a cabernet and a coffee.”
Neither drink will be especially good, but possessing refined tastes doesn’t make me a snob. It’s the relaxed clarity I enjoy when mixing alcohol and caffeine that I’m after, not a culinary experience. The dichotomous buzz, a first-class window seat, and a nine hour flight ought to help me work through how I’ll break the news of Artemis’s treachery at the annual Council meeting tomorrow.
Twenty-one members comprise the Council. Which makes one representative for every ten of the original 1st Generation, plus a special position elected by the twenty for the purpose of breaking ties during close votes. There were the same number of leaders among the Watchers, our fathers, the two-hundred alpha angels who chose the exqu
isite warmth of a woman’s flesh over God’s favor. Their defiance earned them chains in the outer darkness, made their brides barren after their first child, and bastardized their sons. Not that I hold it against them. One God. Billions of women.
It was the Council meeting that had me in New York when I got the call from Yuri. In addition to my usual security-related responsibilities, I’d planned to urge the Council to amend the Codes. They rarely act on such requests, but then, the Sons Of Jared rarely kill five of us in as many months. Rarely, as in it’s never happened. Nor has one of our own ever betrayed us like Artemis. Given this new threat, I think the Council will be receptive.
The stewardess brings me the cabernet. I give it a brief swirl and breathe of its perfume. Not bad. Gotta love Air France.
“The coffee as well?”
I nod and she brings it. I review what went down in Sarajevo again, consider all of the angles, search for anything I might have missed. Maybe if I’d kept Artemis alive and been able to question him, I’d have less to wonder about? Or, if I’d been able to interrogate one of the gunmen who ambushed me at Yuri’s club? But there was no time. Or so I tell myself. No time? Or no restraint? It’s not something I’m ready to consider just yet.
The wine is turning out to be better than good, bordering on exceptional; it urges me to ponder other matters.
“More cabernet, sir?”
“Yes, please.”
The stewardess is paying me far more attention than the other passengers. I keep my replies shorter than usual to discourage her. I want to stay with my thoughts for the time being. A rare indulgence.
Yesterday there were one-hundred-eighty living 1st Generation Nephilim. Today, with Artemis dead, one-seventy-nine. Slowly but surely, the enemy is winning. And we don’t even know the name of a single SOJ. We don’t know where they meet, how they recruit. Nothing. The Council’s stance has always been defensive. The risk of turning the tables on the SOJ and hunting them, they argue, is that we’ll risk alerting the average citizen to our existence, or (in recent years) piquing the curiosity of certain American three-letter agencies who might see us as a terrorist threat. I’ve been told, in no uncertain terms, that the only time I should engage the enemy is to prevent an imminent attack. In other words, the Council believes it’s our ability to hide that will ensure our survival. Well, I’m tired of hiding—tired of reacting to the SOJ’s tactics; I want to take the fight to them for a change. Damn the Council’s stay-under-the-radar approach.
“Anything else I can do for you?”
The stewardess again. She’s either very determined to spend a night with me in New York, or something else is going on here. I exercised the usual precautions, of course. Fake IDs, bogus but believable passport, Veingel booking agent, blah, blah, blah. But lately, the usual precautions are working about as well as jerk-squirt-wipe-and-worry birth control does for Catholics.
“One more round of each.”
That’s all I say, but now that I’m curious and taking a closer look at her, I’m forced to imagine what nibbling lightly around her belly button might do to the evil glint in her eye.
The corner of her mouth inclines ever so slightly, as if she’s bugged my inside voice. A grin? A leer? After a long second she breaks eye contact. The moment passes. I return to my thoughts and the scenery outside the window.
Should I be surprised to see one of the engines beneath the right wing of this Boeing 747 seize up like an epileptic in a strobe-lit skating rink? No, I shouldn’t be. Living, breathing anomaly that I am. But surprised I am, nonetheless. More so as I watch a second engine flame out.
Before I can alert the stewardess, the syringe she’s holding empties its payload into my neck like a kamikaze bumble bee. I’m still conscious, but now I can’t move. Serves me right for making light of epilepsy.
The stewardess, Dahlia according to her name tag, leans in to whisper in my ear, “Strangely, having just fucked you, I find myself still curious what you’re like in bed. Maybe next time, eh?”
Another announcement on the intercom steps on the sly comeback I can’t voice, anyway. “Everyone should remain in their seats with their seat belts securely fastened until the pilot turns off the Fasten Your Seatbelt sign. Some of you may have noticed we’re having a bit of trouble with the engines on the right side of the plane. I’ve spoken with the captain, and he wants me to assure you it’s nothing serious. This Boeing 747 is equipped with four engines and can safely fly with only two of them in operation.”
Translation: We’re all twice as likely to die as we were a moment ago when all engines were functioning properly.
But now they both purr back to life as if nothing was ever wrong with them; polite golf spectator applause sounds throughout the cabin. The engine failure was merely a distraction for my benefit.
I have no idea how they plan to remove me from the plane without arousing suspicion from airport security at LaGuardia International. Frankly, I’m curious as hell. It’ll be a learning experience.
An op like this in such a public place just isn’t the SOJ’s style. They’re probably the most secretive of all secret societies. Nephilim included. As evidenced by the respective number of results in a Google search for both keywords. Granted, any term that appears in the Bible will be indexed by the search engines; Nephilim does, The Sons Of Jared does not. I just can’t understand why they’d want to risk the exposure entailed in removing me from a commercial jet on a stretcher.
But here’s Dahlia with another needle. As she injects this new mystery cocktail into my neck, it’s clear I won’t find out how they pull this off, because I’ll be asleep.
We are now beginning our final descent…
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Tell me again why we’re relyin’ on the expertise of a certifiable crazy?” Not even Yale had been able to remove the Texas drawl from his speech.
The Senator from Boston turned away from the rocket-propelled-grenade-proof glass. “He’s perfect precisely because he’s crazy, though it would be more accurate to say he’s lacking in credibility. He has no refereed venue to publish what he translates, and if he wants to use what he learns from us in a few of his sermons, who cares? It’s not like he’ll be naming names.”
He kept his voice low, not because anyone would be able to hear their conversation inside a moving limo, but because he found that people listened better when he talked softly.
“And he’s good?”
“He’s proven that, hasn’t he, with what we’ve already given him? He’s beyond good.”
“And the girl…our butt is covered there, right?”
The Senator nodded repeatedly to the affirmative. As the President knew, it wasn’t their ass on the line, anyway. Conspiracy theorists liked to think a secret organization pulled the strings. The Trilateral Commission, the Bilderbergs, or the Illuminati. Those same theorists asserted that the dominant world governments were just a façade, and these cabals of wealthy elites were really in control, the puppeteers of global power. Maybe in the old days. Maybe in some other country. But not the U-S-of-fucking-A. Not now. We make the rules. Sometimes, interests just happen to coincide. The SOJ would take the hit if anything broke.
Or so went the Senator’s pitch.
“No ties?”
“None.”
“Good.”
Surely the President realized they’d needed leverage with this Henrik Whitmore character? The proper pronunciation of nuclear might escape him, but politics and coercion were in the man’s blood. Yes, the Senator thought, he appreciates the necessity; he just doesn’t like it. Who risks kidnapping civilians, after all? Even after a landslide victory?
Not that Hernandez was a civilian. Far from it. But this detail, like so many others, was something the Commander In Chief didn’t need to fret over.
“She won’t be harmed,” the Senator added, though they both knew her safety wasn’t something which could be absolutely guaranteed. Only Henrik’s continued cooperation could ensure th
at. If he were to become obstinate in any way—if his so-far obsessive curiosity were to be satisfied before the translation was complete…well, perhaps her screams would inspire him. That would fall to the discretion of her captors, whom the Senator knew from personal observation could be trusted to finish the job.
They rode in silence for two more blocks. As the Washington Monument came into view the Senator reflected on what would undoubtedly become a landmark in the President’s legacy. Tomorrow, he would sign his name to his very first veto of legislation since the election. A bill promoting stem-cell research.
“Big day, tomorrow. You excited?”
The President flashed his trademark shit-eating grin. “As Castro on Viagra.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I open my eyes to family, not foes. The Nephilim Council, not the SOJ. They sit in a neat row looking down at me from behind a long, mahogany paneled podium.
Am I surprised? Very. Offended? Deeply.
The Algonquin, located at 59 West 44th Street in Manhattan, is best known for its Roundtable, a former meeting place of writers, actors, and other wits of note in the 1920s. In 1950, William Faulkner drafted his Nobel Prize acceptance speech here. At the time, I was three doors down the hall from his room, thoroughly enjoying the Algonquin’s reputation as the first quality hotel in New York to welcome young ladies traveling alone. Establishing a Nephilim safe-house here required little deliberation. Now you can enjoy ten-thousand-dollar, diamond-cooled martinis at the bar, a clever bit of marketing designed to attract the nostalgic and the nouveau rich. Guests pay over two-hundred a night minimum hoping to spot Dorothy Parker’s ghost, and to take pictures of the famous nameplates indicating where stars once dined. Even at that rate, however, they never lay eyes on the most impressive room at the Algonquin, the oval-domed auditorium in which I stand shackled hand and foot, three stories below street level. Mount Hermon, we call it, despite its cavernous depth.
I, Jequon: Part One of the Nephilim Chronicles Page 7