Verity Rising (Gods of Deceit Book 1)

by Phil Scott Mayes

  “Want me to call cops?” he offers.

  “No, I’ll think of something. Just keep going straight, please.”

  I don’t know what I’m dealing with yet and don’t need to see the police again today. The light turns green, and Alex accelerates forward then suddenly slams on the brakes, pressing me into the back of the front seat. As I collect myself, Alex pops open his door and jumps into the street. He walks to the back of the taxi as the driver behind angrily honks their horn.

  With one more step he gains a clear view of the blue sedan’s driver. He points his index finger sharply at the man’s face before pulling it across his own throat. With both hands he mimes removing his own head and then aggressively drop kicking it. A final pause punctuated with a menacing glare drives his point home. The blue sedan pulls around our stopped vehicles and speeds past.

  Alex returns to the car and sits with a triumphant plop.

  “There, problem fixed,” he says with a chuckle. “Now friend, where to?”

  I smile and shake my head before saying, “Comstock, please.”

  “Oh, nice neighborhood. You live there?”

  “No, I’m going to see someone,” I reply.

  “You are going to do business?” Alex pries.

  “Something like that.”

  “Oh, you are mysterious, my friend,” he exclaims with a delighted hoot. “I love this job!”

  “I like you, Alex, and coming from me that is a tremendous compliment. What you did back there was as courageous as it was outrageous. I sincerely thank you.”

  “What are friends for, sir?”

  “You’re absolutely right. You’ve been a big help. Did you happen to notice anything identifiable about him?”

  “Not really. He looked like Juggernaut, you know? That was only thing.”

  “What do you mean, Juggernaut?”

  He has a belly laugh at my expense and says, “You don’t get out much, do you? Juggernaut, like from X-Men. There was internet video. ‘I’m the Juggernaut, bitch.’”

  “I don’t know what any of that means, but thanks again, Alex. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to do some thinking while we drive.”

  “Say no more, friend.”

  Between downtown Port Ellis and the swanky, foothill neighborhoods that cozy up to the Cascades lies a moat of projects and row houses. Forty feet off the ground, the interstate bridges the chasm of the disadvantaged like a jetway for the wealthy, ferrying them from their heavenly homes to their opulent offices and back. If not for the inconveniently located H.R. Donaldson International Airport, there’d be no reason for them to ever wade into the purgatory of the masses. Even then, most of Comstock’s residents fly out of the nearby regional airport on private or chartered planes.

  It’s easy for me to forget that my genetic code is a mix of angel and human DNA. There is a part of me that is very much human, but I’ve spent my entire life ignoring and suppressing it. On the rare occasions when it has managed to poke through, I’ve fought to rid myself of its weakness. The effect of that mystifying woman and Alex’s protective actions have emboldened my human side, and for the first time in my life, I am fully aware of my dual nature. It couldn’t have come at a worse time.

  I said before that the ancient tales of my people are not entirely accurate. It is true that we are part angel and part human, but this did not come about through reproduction between angels and women. That’s not to say that Nephilim don’t engage in sex with humans. We have, but not as an avenue for reproduction, because we’re not compatible in that way. It was deemed necessary to create a hybrid race capable of living covertly amongst humans and tasked as messengers of truth, like their angelic ancestors. We are the product of careful engineering, designed to bridge the gap between deity and mankind.

  If I had time, I’d leave town for the night to clear my head. A wide-open space away from people would work well to reset my mind. As it is, I’ll have to subdue these thoughts through sheer willpower so I can formulate a plan for Dave’s sowing.

  “Sorry to interrupt, friend, but do you have address for your destination?” Alex politely inquires.

  “No need to apologize, Alex. There is a park and playground at the corner of Heritage Lane and Swanson Street. Can you just drop me there?”

  “Of course. We will be there in ten minutes.”

  “Thank you,” I reply as I retreat back into my mind.

  Predominantly, my life has been spent in solitude, and I prefer it that way. If not for my calling as a guardian of truth, I would avoid all interaction with human beings. Like a birth defect, I’m bombarded by a neurotic compulsion to see truth flourish. Outwardly I may appear human but, as far as I’m concerned, that is the extent of my humanity. I have a mission, a higher calling, that precedes all else, including my own happiness. And with that reminder, at least for now, I have pushed away any notion of love, earthly pleasures, and humanly living.

  Another five minutes pass and we pull up to the small neighborhood park only a half-mile from Dave’s house. At the eastern limit of the metro Port Ellis area, nestled against the foothills of the Cascades, is a scenic neighborhood complete with thirty-six holes of golf, a racquet club, and a well-appointed community center. Given the wealth in this neighborhood, one might rightfully expect a far more robust park than this—a sandbox, swing set, slide, and backyard-quality castle playground. But, of course, most of these homes have theater rooms, basement bowling alleys, and swimming pools to keep everyone entertained.

  Alex brings the vehicle to a stop and turns to face me. “Time to pay, my friend.”

  I retrieve my cash and round his rate up to the next ten.

  “Alex, keep doing what you’re doing. You’re one of very few good ones. Thank you.”

  “There are more of us than you think. I hope to see you again, Mr…” he says, dragging out the end for me to finish.

  “Just call me Ted.”

  “Mr. Ted. It’s been nice to meet you. Take my card and call whenever you need ride.” He searches his pockets before producing a business card that was obviously designed on his home computer. “Best of luck with whatever you do.”

  “You as well, Alex. Take care and stay honest!”

  With that, I slide out of the cab and Alex drives off, giving a farewell wave from his window. I survey the immaculate, viridescent grounds. It’s quiet here. The red maple trees that line the perimeter sway in the shifty sea breeze that’s now unobstructed by columns of concrete and steel. The evenly cut blades of grass appear uniform in size, shape, and vibrant hue. Low above the horizon, from southeast to southwest, the strange moon drifts stealthily through the brilliant blue sky. With little imagination I could lie on this lush lawn facing that blue expanse with the candy-red trees all around, the mountain peaks to the east, and the daytime moon lurking through the southern sky and imagine I’m on a faraway planet. One inhabited solely by my own species. It has long been my one indulgence of imagination to stare up at the night moon with its radiant continents and murky oceans and imagine it is such a planet. It’s an escape that tempts me frequently these days, but one I can only enjoy sparingly. Regardless, this is truly a serene respite from the chaos of the city and will provide the space I need to think through the next ten hours.

  Thanks to Joel, I know where Dave lives, and I expect him to return home sometime this evening. I know he has a wife who may or may not be home, and I can also safely assume he has a monitored security system. Passive video surveillance alone will be onerous to evade, but real-time monitored service with a panic button and cloud storage takes meticulous planning to work around—or the right to be on the premises. Maybe the key is not to evade surveillance so much as to find a legitimate reason to be there. Dave and I are coworkers and it wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for me to stop by for a visit. But if he turns up dead and I was his last visitor, as the security footage will show, I might as well have sown him back at Pentastar.

  The giggling of children joins the soft fla
pping of leaves and draws my attention to two young boys, twins by the look of it, one trying to drag the other to the ground by the shirt collar. Their mother watches on from a nearby bench, at first absorbed in their antics, then staring at her open palms as if to question her usefulness. She’s old enough to be their grandmother, and rather than invigorating her with their youthful energy, they’re siphoning her dry like a reserve fuel tank. I turn away and again try to concentrate on Dave, but their jubilant, infectious laughter invades my thoughts. With no siblings and intense Nephilim parents, I never really played as a child, and I can’t say I’ve ever experienced that innocent joy. Even when my mother read me bedtime stories it was meant to indoctrinate me into nobility and virtue, not fill my head with whimsical ideas about love and happy endings. I was programmed from a young age to slay the dragons of the world, not for true love’s kiss, but simply because it is the right thing to do. Settling into my headspace, my musings continue until I realize how badly I’ve lost track of time.

  I don’t have time for this! If I can’t focus, this operation will be a total failure. Pentastar will get away with wrecking lives, the victims will see no justice, I could end up in jail or, worse still, it could lead to the compromise of my entire species.

  “Teddy!”

  The woman’s voice sends a jolt down my spine. I train my eyes on her, but she’s not looking at me. The boys’ play is turning rough and she’s completely focused on them.

  “Teddy, Franky, stop it!” she hollers as the boys wrestle and grunt on the ground.

  She stands from the bench and trots over to separate them, but as she approaches, they disengage and scamper away from her. They snicker as the woman desperately orders them to stop, then notice me and veer in my direction. Their jouncing blonde heads and grins full of tiny teeth are equally playful and impish, but there’s nothing fun about this for their dispirited mother in sluggish pursuit. I squat down as the boys approach and spread my arms wide to prevent them from entering the road behind me. They grab hold and position my arms like guardrails to keep the woman away.

  “BOYS, get over here,” she shouts. “I’m so sorry, sir. I’m hopelessly outmatched.”

  She slides her hand up her forehead to sweep back the strands of gray-brown hair that have escaped her messy bun. She’s not young but not old either, nor is she fat or skinny. Wearing leggings and an oversized sweater in this neighborhood makes her look like hired help, but the five-carat diamond on her finger suggests she’s right where she belongs.

  “It sure seems that way. Are they twins?” I ask, looking down at the kids who are still holding onto me. I raise my gaze to the woman’s face and detect an abnormally harrowed subtext in her expression. Yes, she’s overwhelmed by these boys, but that’s not why she teeters on the edge of tears.

  “Yes, they’re twin four-year-olds. God save me.”

  “Boys, go back to your mother,” I say, using my arms to tow them in her direction. The boys unlatch from my arms and hop like bunnies back to her.

  “Oh, I’m not their mother; I’m their aunt. I help my sister with childcare while she works.”

  “That’s very generous of you. I’m sure these boys are in good hands!” Though this sounds like flattery, her compassionate nature and motherly love for the boys is readily apparent. However frazzled she may feel, those kids are well-off in her care.

  Bluntly, one of the twins says, “You’re really tall!”

  “Are you a giant?” the other one asks.

  “People used to think so,” I respond. “What do you think?”

  Both boys issue big smiles and nod vigorously.

  “Boys, what did I tell you about saying things like that?” she asks rhetorically. She looks up to me and says, “I appreciate the compliment, but my husband is the one with the golden touch. The boys adore him so much.” She pauses as a lump lodges in her throat. “He’s really stepped up since their dad passed away,” she says while running her fingers through the boys’ thick yellow curls.

  “I’m very sorry to hear about their father. It’s so important for young men to have strong male mentors. I commend your husband for stepping up.”

  “He’s a complicated man, but he’s a good husband and is turning into an awesome uncle. I don’t know what I’d do—what these boys would do—without him,” she says with a teary smile that twists quickly into a frown. “But he just had a close friend commit suicide at work today and I’m worried how it’s going to affect him.”

  My pulse quickens and plays through my eardrums, my abdomen an acrobatic circus. A piñata of thoughts bursts, dumping more than my mind can process. I sift through in a scramble to find a suitable response, but the confusion has already found its way to my face and she’s noticed.

  “Oh my God, I’m sorry. That’s too much information.” She recoils at my horrified look. “I always do this. I’m so sorry. I’ve just had too much on my mind and no one to talk to. Dave works a lot and he’s not even coming home early today after everything that’s happened.” The tears are now streaming down her cheeks.

  “It’s okay, really, I understand.” It seems impossible that any situation could be more awkward than this. Not only is a total stranger breaking down to me, but she’s the wife of my next target.

  “I assume that Dave is your husband.”

  “Yes,” she snivels. “Going on twenty-six years this November. Wow, I guess that’s next month, isn’t it?”

  “I’m sure that Dave knows what he can handle. Give him time and space to process and then be there for him when he’s ready to open up.”

  “You’re right. That’s quite good advice, thanks.” After a short pause she says, “I just realized I never asked for your name.”

  “You can call me Theo,” I deliberately reply. Theodonis, my full name, is traditional Nephilim and too conspicuous for public use. Ted and Theo are both suitable, forgettable nicknames, and I don’t want Dave to know I was here. “And you are?”

  “Bridgette,” she answers meekly.

  “Well, Bridgette, it is very nice to meet you and these rambunctious boys!”

  “It’s nice to meet you too, Theo.”

  “I don’t mean to run off prematurely, but it’s just dawned on me that I left some unfinished business back at the office. I really need to get going. Are you going to be okay?”

  “Oh yeah,” she says with a brave face. “We’ll be fine, but didn’t you just get here in a cab?”

  “I did. I was going to meet a coworker here, but we may just have to reschedule.”

  “Well, alright then. You have a blessed day, Theo.”

  “Thanks. You too, Bridgette.”

  As she and the twins walk back toward the playground, I rifle through my pockets for Alex’s card. The boys’ voices are fading but I can still hear them ask why she is sad. The tender empathy of children is one of humanity’s most endearing qualities.

  Such an unlikely meeting has stirred a warning in my spirit. The tranquility that reassured me about Joel’s sowing has vanished. This feels like a sign. Beyond that, when I shook Bridgette’s hand and looked into her broken eyes, I saw a lifetime of tragedy and pain. She and those kids have been through too much for me to sow Dave and risk a suicidal outcome.

  I need to get to Dave before he returns home. For the first time in my life, I have to make sowing someone my backup plan. I remain faithful in my commitment to truth, but perhaps there’s another way to show him the truth. Tonight, I will try a new, more human approach.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Alex is still nearby and responds quickly to my call for a journey back to the city that’s very different from the drive out to Comstock. Removing wicked people from the world may be an improvement in the lives of those who don’t know them, but it can still be devastating for the family and friends left behind. This time I’ve actually met one of them, and it’s challenged me with new doubts about the morality of my mission and my methods. I stew quietly with the hope that Dave will make the right
decision for Bridgette and the boys. Verbal confrontation: such an approach would not typically suffice, but my sincere desire is for Dave to be the exception.

  Alex pulls to the curb and we share another warm farewell. Outside, I stand at the base of Milburn Tower staring up to where Joel’s end began. This time each evening, the tower’s top two floors are set ablaze by the sunset’s final rays. It is the lighthouse of Port Ellis, but certainly no beacon of hope. I don’t want to confront Dave inside this building. The offices that loom overhead are his territory and this confrontation will be most effective if held in a public, neutral place. The presence of witnesses will delay Dave’s volatility and provide leverage if he’s unwilling to see reason.

  All around me the bustle becomes a saunter. Businessmen and women with ties loosened, shirts untucked, and blazers slung over their arms no longer check their watches with weary eyes. The enchantment of twilight slows the pulse of the city. Radiant oranges, pinks, and purples paint the blue sky and bring the concrete and glass to life. The streetlights’ soft glow marks the onset of their nightly battle against the darkness. Chaos and clamor dull to a soothing hum, the overture of the urban lullaby.

  Despite the workday winding down, the budding social scene maintains the metro movement. Instead of hurrying to meet deadlines, people stroll leisurely down the sidewalk on their way to restaurants and bars, galleries and shows. Their smiles and laughter steep the atmosphere in joy and enthusiasm for life. Inviting Dave for a drink at The Downspout could create the disarming setting I need to break through to him. I dial Dave and plan my words in a way that I know will grab his attention. Three rings later, I’m greeted dryly by his voicemail.

  “You’ve reached the voicemail of Dave McConnell. Leave me a message and I’ll be in touch as soon as possible.”

  “Dave, it’s Ted. We have a problem. Meet me at The Downspout as soon as you can.”

  I hang up and drop my phone back into my pocket. A glance up to the Pentastar offices confirms that the lights are still on, but I’d be surprised if they ever get turned off. Dave’s work hours regularly exceed those of the single employees, but it’s hard to imagine him plugging away at his to-do list on an evening like this. Then again, most people gladly welcome any distraction from grief and fear. It would make sense for Dave to self-medicate with more work.