“Oh, you think we’ll meet again?”
She stands from the bench and offers a dainty wave before she turns toward Drake and Lewis. She hustles a few steps away before responding.
“Ted, we’ll meet again. I’m confident of that,” she replies with total conviction.
“How can you be so sure?” I ask, hoping she tips her hand.
“There’s just something about you, Ted. You could say my journalistic instincts are lighting you up. It’s as if you’re the story here. Either way, I know where to find you.”
I watch as she greets them with cordial hugs and smiles. An irksome twinge tightens my jaw as I observe the only woman who has ever caught my interest cavorting with a man who has become my leading opposition.
The three of them chat in front of the station, tension building in my muscles with each hostile glance from Drake and Lewis. I’d really like to be gone when they get to the part of the conversation where Drake tells Mel that he suspects I’m a murderer or a Nephilim or both. That’s a sideways glance I could do without seeing.
What is taking this driver so long?
Just as my imaginary countdown nears its end, headlights bounce into the parking lot. A black town car pulls up and veers around Melody’s cab, stopping right in front of me. I hustle from the bench to the car in the hope of making an unnoticed exit, but they’ve been watching the car from the moment it turned in. I can feel their sour eyes tracing my every move as I zip inside and lean to close the door.
“We’ll do this again soon,” hollers Lewis as the door slams shut.
“Take me to Rockefeller Park, please.”
“You live way out there?” he says curiously. “If you don’t mind me asking, sir, why?”
“I don’t like people.”
He accepts my answer with a satisfied nod and lifts his foot from the brake. The vehicle starts rolling and I feel relief with every revolution of the tires. It’s funny how a little geographic separation from a problem can bring peace of mind. Nothing about my situation with the police and Melody has changed, and yet the problem still shrinks away in the rearview mirror.
I’m humiliated. The idea of a “Melody” has lurked in my blind spot my entire life but, somehow, I never realized I was capable of such naive twitterpation. My father harped on the importance of self-awareness on a weekly, if not daily, basis. He said that the greatest threat we face as Nephilim is our own humanity quietly driving our choices and steering us away from our purpose. He would be disappointed to see me so utterly blindsided by these desires.
The drive to my apartment in the industrial district can’t pass quickly enough. I lean my head against the glass as the streetlights pass in a blur. Melody seems to be more trouble than she’s worth. After just two brief meetings she’s disturbed my sense of identity, diminished my self-respect, and likely now shares Drake’s suspicions about me.
With each block traveled, the buildings look less like places where no one wants to live and more like places where no one wants to work. Warehouses with broken windows and walls crusty with decades of graffiti line both sides of the four-lane boulevard. Tight jets of white vapor spiral from the tops of distant smokestacks before billowing into plumes of fluffy gray.
A city initiative has slowly pushed the industrial district farther beyond the outskirts of the city. Every couple of years, the properties closest to town are rezoned as residential or commercial properties, but the local land developers remain mostly unconvinced of their viability. The cost involved in tearing down these old warehouses to build new apartments and condos requires rent pricing beyond the reach of the nearby factory workers. That alone isn’t the problem. The real problem is that Rockefeller Park is an inconvenient commute for the “downtown folk” who can actually afford such high rent.
One developer invested in a few of these properties, but instead of demolishing the existing structures they repurposed them into large urban-industrial studio apartments at a very reasonable price. They did little more than raise a few walls, install some plumbing and appliances, and add some new windows, but I don’t need much and it makes for an adequate temporary living space. More than anything, it’s quiet and isolated from the arterial flow of the city.
The landowner’s desperation to find tenants offered the added benefit of getting into a paperwork-free, cash-based arrangement. I prepaid one year of rent in cash and they don’t ask me questions. It’s not home, but it’ll suffice until I’ve dealt with Pentastar.
“It’s up here on the right. You can just drop me off in front,” I tell the driver.
“Yes, sir. Do you need to go anywhere else tonight?”
“No, thank you. I’m just staying home.”
“What time do you need a car in the morning?”
“Seven o’clock will work.”
“Excellent, sir. I’ve already entered the reservation in the system. A driver will be here at seven in the morning. Have a good night, sir.”
“Thanks. You too,” I reciprocate as I climb out of the vehicle.
I hurry up the lighted walkway. Modern glass entry doors replaced the building’s original metal doors, but it still feels distinctly like approaching a high school gymnasium. Warm, amber light emanates from industrial fixtures on each side of the entrance. I pull the door open and hurdle up the stairs to my top-floor unit, but as I traverse the final flight, my kicked-in apartment door comes into view. Splintered bits of wood sprinkle the ground from the jagged, cracked door frame and a cluster of dirty boot prints mark the painted white door.
My fatigue suddenly vanishes as the fight surges through my body. I release my constricted posture and extend to my full Nephilim stature. Blind rage vibrates through my muscles as I maneuver my neck and head for a look inside. A strobing lamp lies broken on the floor, providing moments of visibility that cast imposing shadows all around the room with each flash of light. My heart skips a beat as a flicker reveals a figure standing motionless behind the table. Then the next flash highlights the vase responsible for the figure. Without being inside, I can’t see into the dark corners that could easily conceal my intruder. I have to go in.
I tense my jaw and stoop as I barge through the door and sweep my hand up the switch plate, turning on the ceiling lights. The door slams against the wall with a deep thud that I feel in my body, then slowly returns with a gentle pat against my shoulder. I feverishly scan for movement but find none. The room is still and silent. Gently, I push the door shut until it scrapes loudly against the protruding shards of the door frame.
Bits of wood crunch underfoot as I slowly step, wide-eyed, into my ruined sanctuary. The drawers and doors of each cabinet, chest, and dresser hang from their stops and hinges. Like massacred bodies, couch cushions lay strewn on the floor with their fabric slashed and insides on display. Piles of snowy fluff speckle the laminate faux-wood flooring, a typical early spring landscape in the North. The walls are stripped bare of my minimal décor, which is now torn and tossed around the room. Of my décor, one piece in particular had the special responsibility of guarding something sacred. I panic at the realization and race to the bathroom to find the framed photograph broken on the floor and the brick missing from the wall where it hung.
“No, no, no,” I exclaim aloud as I search the empty compartment. I kick away the mess on the floor to rifle through the vanity and medicine cabinet but find nothing. Having yet to check the kitchen, I head that way in the desperate hope that whoever did this was unaware of the value of their discovery.
As I charge toward the kitchen, the familiar object grabs my attention. Placed neatly on the kitchen counter is a small metal case containing several full vials of my sacred Nephilim blood. To the untrained eye, the case might look like a pack of diabetic supplies. Six vials rest safely in pre-cut foam in one half of the case, while the other half holds several syringes and a rubber tourniquet. To most, it would mean nothing. To me, it’s something symbolic, the hope of righted wrongs and freedom in truth. It’s not only t
he lifeforce of my body, but the essence of my identity and the substance of my spirit.
I race to inspect my most valued possession. With horror I discover a broken, empty vial resting beside the case. Nausea wrenches through my gut as I read the words that are scrawled on the countertop in my blood: WE KNOW.
CHAPTER NINE
The squawk of my alarm rips me, gasping, from exhausted sleep. My heart throbs, sluggishly moving my thick blood like a motor chugging through a sleepy climb. I fumble with the phone beside me, silence the incessant chirping, and flop back onto the mattress until my pulse settles. East-facing windows drench me with hot morning sunshine in defiance of the cool morning air. I sit up in my bed and peer out over Southwest Port Ellis. The massive rainwater culvert dividing the residential sector from Rockefeller Park sparkles with blinding intensity.
Despite its lack of affluence, this neighborhood enjoys the wealth of community. Here, shop owners see their customers as more than a means to wealth. They didn’t start their businesses to get rich, but to provide a service or products that their community needed. They care more about their customers and even give food to the local homeless. Neighbors share with one another and dine together. No one has enough to be self-sufficient, creating a codependency that fuels compassion and cooperation. Of course, there are exceptions to every rule. For some, this level of need brings desperation, and desperation, selfish lawlessness.
Break-ins are an occasional problem, mostly committed by youths looking for a quick score. They usually target parking lots, looking for cars with loot in plain sight. Ever so rarely, they’ll seize an opportunity for a home invasion or burglary, but last night’s break-in was no such crime. Whoever broke in knew what they were looking for and already suspected my true nature. Nothing was missing because it wasn’t a crime of desperation, and there was no need to make it look like one. They knew I wouldn’t contact the police.
I throw off my comforter and make my way to the bathroom. A minefield of debris still litters my unit, forcing me to tiptoe beyond my early morning agility. Before reaching the bathroom, a staggering step leads me off course and onto one of my broken picture frames. I release a pained yelp as a thin sliver of glass pierces the sole of my foot. Awkwardly hopping, I wince and suck the air through my teeth as I pluck the transparent needle from my flesh.
The morning radiance of the nearest star bombards the crystal shard as I lift it for inspection. Golden light shines through the bloodstained glass like a slide under a microscope, alive with movement. Within the thin red film I can almost see the microbes responsible for the wonder of the sowing. It is not the Nephilim blood itself that is the seed, it’s these microbes that invade the mind of the sown, activating dormant parts of the human brain. In the blackness of the sowing, the human mind is stimulated well beyond its typical ten percent workload. Observations that never consciously registered, hidden memories in long-forgotten files, and connections beyond their mental acuity are all logged away in their limitless cranial storage. The seed defragments the entirety of the mind’s filing system, revealing the truths that people tried to forget as well as those they didn’t realize they knew.
Gravity stretches a drop loose from the glass splinter that falls to a syrupy splat on the very frame that stabbed me. The photo inside is one of the only photos I own of my parents and me all together. I toss the piece of glass into the trash and crouch near the broken frame. Carefully, I pick it up and slide the photograph free from the debris.
A man and woman sit on the worn wooden steps of an old farmhouse porch. Between them, on the next step down, is a lanky fourteen-year-old boy whose face is perfectly masked by my drop of blood. I grab a tuft of couch stuffing and try to wipe it away, but it mostly smears. Several more swipes and I can make out my features. My wispy blonde hair flaps in the light cross breeze and my mom’s dirty-blonde locks sway like willow leaves. Dad’s chiseled jaw and dimpled chin were the first things anyone noticed about him, but it was his wisdom and patience that I remember most.
There was nothing truly remarkable about the day of this photograph, but I still recall it quite vividly. Almost every day from my tenth birthday until the day of his passing, my father and I enjoyed a daily lunch routine. The day of this photo was no different. After all the morning farming duties were complete, we broke for a small lunch consisting of an apple, a few berries, the vegetable of the day, and a couple slices of meat for protein. We then moved to the living room and sat on opposite sides of the oak coffee table—me on the couch’s floral upholstery and my father in his wooden rocking chair. The early-afternoon sun baked the front yard, which shone brightly on the other side of the sheer curtains and made the dim living room look even darker. Sipping on glasses of fresh milk, we spent thirty minutes playing chess. Of course, I use the word “playing” loosely—it was strategic training. Some days my tactical blunders brought swift defeat in under thirty minutes, and we’d clear the board and head back outside for an afternoon of callus-forming labor. But on that day we were finishing a game that we had started the day prior. Being our second day of play, I knew that the game would be over quickly and remember feeling both dismayed, because I’d soon be gripping the weathered shovel handle again, and elated, because I was only a few moves from defeating my father for the first time. Checkmate came five moves later, turning up the corners of my father’s mouth and bringing a beaming grin to mine. He told me that before we even finished yesterday’s play he knew I was going to win and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He said that if I approached sowings the way I played that game, I could maneuver people like chess pieces and make myself as inevitable as death. That afternoon, we set the camera on a tripod and took the photo to mark the occasion.
It is the last picture we took together before they died. Even so, it’s not a great picture. Like the photos from the early history of the camera, none of us are smiling because it isn’t customary for Nephilim to smile. It would be a stretch to make it a matter of principle, but faking smiles for the sake of a camera is somewhat disingenuous. Despite having a pleasant upbringing, no one in our little family unit appears happy. Their emotionless expressions would be unsettling if not for their kind eyes.
It’s hard to know what my parents would think of me now. They were tough, leathery Nephilim inside and out, like hardened war veterans, my dad more than my mom. There were times that she was affectionate simply for affection’s sake and, like I said before, she read me stories. Other than that, softness and sensitivity had no place in the life of a truth warrior. Yet here I am, struggling with infatuation, doubt, anxiety, and more. I doubt that the fact that I’m still accomplishing my calling would do much to ease their disappointment in how human I’m acting. They challenged me to be more, to tap into the strength of my supernatural marrow and to build my identity around my angelic lifeblood.
Though Jan couldn’t have been referring to my abilities as a Nephilim, she was right that I’m not living up to my potential. At the very least, I’ve taken for granted the certainty of my success at Pentastar and failed to approach my work there with the same tactical mindset as those countless chess matches. My casual “watch-and-sow” strategy is like blindly sliding my queen around the board, neglecting the rest of my pieces, and expecting to stumble upon a checkmate. That may have worked during the simple sowings of the past, but it hasn’t been working at Pentastar, and after yesterday’s break-in I get the feeling that my evil opposition are making some moves of their own. It’s no coincidence that it happened on the exact day that I began sowing my targets. Ignoring their brash tactics and continuing with my nonchalant approach will almost guarantee failure, if not worse.
It’s time for me to use all the pieces on the board, starting with Jan. I can’t lower my guard entirely with her; target-turned-ally is an unlikely conversion. Nevertheless, she rescued me from a night in jail and has proven her usefulness. My mind is open to the possibility that there is more to learn about Jan and the gripping evil that leaches thr
ough the mortar of Milburn Tower. If nothing else, maneuvering her properly could make her a powerful piece in my strategy.
I press on with my morning routine, hopeful about what the day holds in store. As much as I don’t want to return home to this intolerably messy apartment, I need to prepare for my first day with Jan. She is clearly a high-functioning person and, if not morally bankrupt, may have much to offer.
I finish showering, dressing, and grooming myself, then grab a breakfast bar before I head to the door. I wedged a bed-frame rail against the door last night that thankfully held strong while I slept. The door slowly creaks open as I remove the rail and toss it aside with an off-putting clang. I’ll put in a repair order with the landlord on the way to work. Having hidden my vials in my briefcase, there’s nothing of any real value left in the apartment anyway.
Outside, the chilly morning air dries my nostrils with each breath. A black town car idles in the parking lot, billowing puffs of vapor from its tailpipe as morning dew evaporates to a fine mist from its hood. Distant car horns crow softly, heralding the new day and the possibilities it presents. I trot down to the parking lot and climb in my ride.
Morning drives into the city are rarely quick, but today’s flies by and I find myself ascending the bowels of Milburn Tower once again. My palate somewhat cleansed of yesterday’s foul taste, even the humans riding beside me on the elevator are more tolerable. Their coffees and breakfast food create an early-day potpourri that today seems rather pleasant and reminds me of the countless pre-dawn farmhouse breakfasts I shared with my parents. Dave’s exploited position in all of this and Jan’s exhortations are shifting my opinion of humanity. Seeing them as wayward children in need of strong leadership not only makes their sins forgivable, it also motivates me to be the leader that they need. I realize now that there are people in this world who either don’t know any better, can’t help themselves, or are unwilling envoys of the same heinous evil that lurks the halls of this company, stalking its next victim.
Verity Rising (Gods of Deceit Book 1) Page 9