Verity Rising (Gods of Deceit Book 1)

by Phil Scott Mayes

  “I didn’t even touch you. You were pretty tense though, muscles locked up and everything. It was like you were frozen. That’s probably why you’re sore.” It’s a guess, but it makes sense. She starts massaging the knots out of her legs. “Do you remember anything?” I ask, almost reluctantly.

  “Yeah, Ted, if that’s even your real name. I remember.”

  “Actually, Ted is my nickname. My full name is Theodonis. What, exactly, do you remember?”

  “I remember everything up until I blacked out. The lights started flashing, you grew like a foot taller, then I guess I blacked out. The next thing I remember is you waking me up. How long was I out?”

  “I don’t know. The whole thing only took a minute or so. You might have been out for ten, fifteen seconds. I wasn’t really watching you.”

  She moves her massaging fingers up to the back of her neck, still winding down and processing what she just witnessed. I gently retrieve my dress shirt and tie from her lap, then my coat. As I reassemble myself, she looks at me with hopeful uncertainty.

  “So…you’re part angel, a Nephilim?”

  “Yes,” I chirp quickly, not wanting to interrupt the flow of her thoughts.

  “Aaand what? You have some kind of angel powers, I assume.”

  “In a way.”

  “What kind of way?”

  “I’m a divine agent of truth. I can reach into the minds of men and set them straight.”

  She spends more time in silent, jumbled thought, then says, “You were right. This changes things. It changes my whole damn understanding of the universe. But how does it help us at Pentastar? Surely you can’t just angel-Hulk smash all the bad guys.”

  “You’re right, I can’t. That’s not how this wor—”

  “Wait a second, did you actually kill Joel and Dave?” Jan interjects incredulously.

  “I didn’t kill them and that’s not how this works. That’s what I was about to explain. They actually committed suicide, but my involvement led them to a crossroads. With enough residual integrity and will to live, they could have chosen a fresh start. It’s the morally filthy and the spiritually weak who usually choose to end their lives, but there is no way to know for sure what the outcome will be when I sow someone. You knew Joel and Dave even better than me, you knew their dirty deeds and corrupt hearts. The more evil that people have to overcome during a sowing, the harder it is for them to continue living.”

  “You said ‘sowing.’ What’s a sowing?”

  “There’s a lot I need to explain before you’re going to fully understand our options and my role here. We can have this conversation here or somewhere more comfortable. Now that I’ve shown you what I needed to, we don’t have to stay down here.”

  “No, you were right. I see why we’re down here now and I don’t want anyone overhearing us or finding out about you. Let’s just hash this out here and now,” she says.

  “Okay. Fine by me,” I reply.

  Jan stands from the chair and arches backward with her palms pressed into the small of her back. Still working out the kinks. She seems to be handling all this surprisingly well, probably aided in part by her newfound position as an angel’s sidekick. It really doesn’t matter to me why she’s taking it well. In the darkest corners of my imagination, this moment had ended with ear-piercing squawks of terror and me having to pin Jan down and force-feed her my blood. Anything short of that fiasco feels like a win, but this outcome feels like a grand slam. The upcoming conversation is simply my lap around the bases that leads to the victorious embrace of my teammate.

  “So, you were saying something about sowing?” she asks, but the subtext barks out with it, I don’t have all day. Even in the presence of a divine being, Jan is still bossy.

  “Yes. Nephilim were created to be agents of truth who expose the lies that hold mankind captive, stealing their free will. Contained within our blood is a wondrous microorganism that impacts the electrical field of the human brain, temporarily supercharging it. That organism is also the reason that the lights flashed when I showed you my true form; their excited movement can affect electromagnetic fields in the surrounding space. Anyway, when the human brain is stimulated this way, it extracts many realities that people know to be true without actively knowing. The lies they tell themselves melt away and the cues that went unnoticed during conversations with others become highlighted in their memories, revealing the lies that others have told them. The limitless alternate endings of life parade before them and they are confronted with how their dishonesty and that of others has destroyed lives. Then they’re left with a choice: embrace the truth and start fresh or collapse under the weight of ruined lives.”

  My response seems to have answered several of Jan’s questions before she could ask them. Her unplugged eyes look through me as she nods to herself, but then her nose crinkles.

  “How does the organism get from your blood to theirs?”

  “That’s a good question,” I say, hoping my positivity will fuel hers. I reach into my pocket and produce my small vial of blood. The intense lights blast through the red syrup, casting a faint magenta X on the floor. Her eyes are gripped by its magnetism. She looks on in wonder as I continue. “Every time I’ve sown someone it has entered through their mouth, but any avenue to the bloodstream will do. During a sowing I usually reveal my angelic nature, and while the subject is literally frozen in fear, just as you were, I release a drop into their mouth. They reflexively swallow it and it absorbs quickly before ever entering the intestines. It travels straight to the brain and goes to work.”

  Her head bobs with wonder then suddenly stops and tilts crookedly.

  Incredulously, Jan asks, “Wait, did you sow me?”

  “No, Jan, I didn’t sow you. You would almost immediately lose consciousness and stay that way for a half hour to an hour.”

  “I did lose consciousness! Ted, Theo-whatever your name is, what the hell?”

  “Jan, you weren’t unconscious, only frozen for a few seconds, and that was just the fear. I didn’t sow you. You’re going to have to trust me. I only risk the outcome of a sowing with those who truly need it; those who are too far gone to choose repentance.”

  As she processes this new information, the corners of her mouth lift and her cheeks squeeze her eyelids to that sliced almond shape. She looks squarely into my eyes and though she may only be a human, she’s a smart one and she’s finished filling in the gaps.

  “Hmm, okay, I think I’ve got this. You sowed Joel and Dave and they chose the coward’s way. That’s the reason you’re here at Pentastar. You came as a judgment to those whose selfish dishonesty with the Fosillix trial cost innocent lives—and that’s the game changer. You’re going to sow whatever board members and shareholders are responsible. Am I close?”

  “More than close; that’s pretty much dead-on. Now, I have a question for you. Can you get on board with this or are you going to be a part of the problem?”

  “I’m already on board, Theo-whatever it is.”

  “Just keep calling me Ted.”

  “Okay, Ted. Let’s do this. Honestly, this is the most badass thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  Through the giggle in her throat, she sounds uncharacteristically childlike. Little Jan Lucero has met her hero and he’s taking her as his sidekick. A subtle sense of celebrity approaches, which I reluctantly rebuff. Still, she’s not wrong. It is pretty badass moving stealthily from place to place, taking down the irreparably depraved, pursuing justice for their victims. As shameful as such fantasies make me feel, it serves my purposes for Jan to see me this way. Her admiration will be the catalyst that aligns our efforts and keeps her clear of my path.

  “It hardly seems ‘badass’ to me now. It’s been my meaning, the purpose of my existence, since I was a child. I was raised to live this life.”

  “Maybe so, but you’re like a supernatural vigilante.” She tries unsuccessfully to wipe the smile from her face, embarrassed by her own gaiety. Clearing her throat
, she flattens her lips briefly before a charming grin reappears. “I just can’t believe I get to be a part of what you’re doing here. Why me, though, really?”

  “In a lot of ways, you’re the ideal partner for this venture. You’re smart and capable, are intimately familiar with what’s happening here, and you’re in the perfect position to help rebuild Pentastar. Once I remove those responsible for the present state of this company, you’ll be free to make it the beacon of hope that you’ve always dreamt it would be. You can make restitution for the tragedies of the Fosillix trial and move forward, leading Pentastar toward a future of prosperity and lifesaving success.”

  Jan’s smile is now molded permanently on her face. I’ve never seen such a transformation in someone’s countenance. The stone has been kneaded to putty, the ice liquified. With certain victory fast approaching, she’s sucking the pure scent of her impending freedom deep into her perfectly proportioned nostrils. She levitates, weightless at the prospect of free rein. Better yet, she doesn’t even have to do the heavy lifting anymore. She has me for that.

  “Ted, you don’t know what it means to hear you say that; to suddenly be so close to waking from this nightmare. How sure are you that you can deliver that outcome?” The question spews out convulsively. She draws back and puts her fingers to her lips. “Sorry, Ted. I don’t mean to question you or your abilities so much as to protect myself. I don’t want to get my hopes up.”

  “I understand, Jan. I’m absolutely certain. I’ve never failed a mission and I don’t intend to start now. But we’re going to need to have a no-holds-barred conversation. I need to know everything you know about the board and the shareholders so that we can build a foolproof plan, maybe several plans.”

  “I can tell you right now who needs to be sown from the boar—”

  “I told you before,” I interrupt sternly, “I only target those who are truly deserving. Only I can make that determination, but your input is invaluable. I’ll need to do my own research to be convinced, but I’m trusting you to point me in the right direction. Can you do that?”

  “Sure, Ted. I would be honored, and I’m sorry if I overstepped.”

  “Of course, no apology necessary,” I console. “Now tell me about the board first.”

  We spend the next hour in the boiler room scouring the gritty details of several board members’ personal and professional lives, at least those that Jan already knows. The frequent deep hum of that utility pump keeps us company and secures our privacy. Though still astonished by Jan’s ready acceptance of my divine nature, these feelings take second chair to the fact that she has seemingly embraced her subjugation. After all the tenacious rumors, all the accusations of maleficence, all the human cockroaches scattering upon her approach, she is merely mortal. Her soft eyes and eager body language beg for my approval, and I grant it to her in doses but, like an addict, she keeps returning for another fix.

  The names that receive special attention are Thomas Sanford, the son of David Sanford, who inherited his father’s blood-built conglomerate and now sits on several boards, including a company who was recently investigated by the Securities and Exchange Commission; Stacy Meyers, who knifed her way to the top of a tech startup before it was eventually bought out by the resident giant; and Trent Jameson, who has more HR complaints filed against him for sexual harassment and workplace violence than seems remotely possible. This stellar group of human trash is less than half the total number of directors on the board. Thankfully, the other six directors have relatively benign stories, making it easier to highlight the few worthy of my attention.

  After our detailed chat, we decide that it’s best to not be seen around each other any more than usual. Triggering suspicions during this heightened state of security will only complicate matters more. According to Jan, the board wants a full report on the recent deaths and a preview of Jan’s media release at tomorrow’s meeting. She claims they’re rattled by the coincidental loss of multiple high-level foot soldiers and want to be sure they aren’t next. A demon would relish the opportunity to dwell in that room and feed from their trough of fear and sadness. For me, it will be an exercise in invisibility. Their hypersensitivity and vigilance could draw attention to anything out of the ordinary, including something as simple as my presence at the meeting. Even so, Jan assures me that she can manage their paranoia and promises that my presence will be entirely forgettable.

  Tomorrow’s board meeting will provide an invaluable opportunity to assess firsthand the nature of these suspects. It may be the only chance I get for the next few months to wrap up this investigation and get out of Port Ellis. Jan can weave whatever tall tales she wants about the board, but I should be able to detect any lies and, so far, her account aligns with my preliminary research of Pentastar’s board. All I really need is a few minutes face-to-face to read them and make a decision for myself, but Jan’s input gives the inside story, the behind-closed-doors edition. By tomorrow night, I’ll be on the inside of those closed doors, stalking my prey.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  My first three sowings as an actively operating Nephilim went like clockwork. The first target I pursued was a con artist named Patrick Smyth who had been swindling elderly women out of their life savings. It required little research and was as clear-cut as a sowing could be. The perfect icebreaker. On a mild winter evening, knowing he was home alone after watching his movements all day, I gently knocked on his bungalow door. As soon as I saw the twisting of the brushed nickel knob, I plowed through the door shoulder first. Patrick stumbled back, grabbing his nose, and flopped over an ottoman. I calmly closed the door and revealed my Nephilim form, to which he responded with debilitated horror. I knelt beside him, tapped a drop from my vial, and went on my way. The next night’s evening news led with the story of a con man who walked into the local police station with a broken nose and a suitcase of money in tow. He confessed to his crimes as well as a humiliating history of lies and generally bad behavior. Strange, because I had him pegged as a suicide candidate.

  On my second outing, I tracked the owner of a family of car dealerships, Troy Bailey. He amassed a tremendous fortune by lying to customers, lying to banks, and even lying to his employees. He regularly downsized and withheld commission checks from salespeople, citing dwindling margins. “Would you rather have a full commission check or have a job come this time next month?” he would ask them before adding, “We’re all in this together and if we don’t make sacrifices, we’ll all be unemployed.” Of course, there was no financial crisis and there were no sacrifices for Troy.

  At the end of the year, his dealerships posted record profits which he used to justify his personal six-figure bonus. His employees, many of whom were struggling to make ends meet and facing collections on important accounts, each received a whopping twenty-five-dollar prepaid gift card. In the end, Troy awoke from a sowing, jumped in his late-model hot rod, and slammed it into the concrete support of a highway overpass. The driver’s front corner hit first at ninety-six miles per hour. With no seatbelt, the airbag could only hope to slow his two-hundred-pound body enough to keep most of him inside the car, and it did just that. On impact, his head punched straight through the windshield, stopping at his shoulders. As the car spun sideways and rolled several times, he was nearly decapitated by the jagged glass.

  Out of the first three, the third was the most satisfying. A charismatic preacher by the name of Jeremiah Daniels had grown progressively unorthodox. Somehow, his popularity and influence grew in direct proportion to his heresy. His doctrine became aggressively self-serving, and although congregants left in droves, new, more vulnerable ones always took their place. Like a frog brought slowly to a boil, thousands of people became cult members without noticing. That in itself wouldn’t necessarily demand a sowing, but as his ego swelled, his behavior became increasingly manipulative and sadistic.

  A self-proclaimed prophet, he spoke under the authority of God Almighty, directing his followers to do increasingly unhealthy,
dangerous, and even violent things. Husbands gave him their wives and daughters, people scourged themselves and scourged each other, some stopped taking vital medications, and others took life-threatening risks under the belief that God would save them. Some acts were said to be a form of penance, some tests of obedience, and others were God’s orders of divine retribution against neighbors. Hundreds of people sold all of their possessions, moved to the Daniels Commune, and donated everything to Jeremiah, acting on the faith that they would be blessed tenfold. By the time I got involved, the official death toll read fifteen, but I believe it was more than twice that.

  On a beautiful, spring Sunday morning, I infiltrated his worship service and concealed myself in the robes of those serving the ritual wine. Head down, hood up, I ambled step-by-step up the red carpeted aisle. Rays of golden sun beamed onto the seas of brainwashed marionettes standing on both sides of me, desperate for Jeremiah to pull their strings and make them feel alive. Just before I reached him, I emptied a whole vial of the seed into his chalice. He took a large swig and immediately buckled. During the commotion I wandered to the back of the sanctuary and, despite the unnecessary risk, stayed to watch the outcome.

  His congregants gathered around, frantically trying to wake him to no avail. They were scared, but since his pulse was strong and breathing steady they obeyed his teachings by praying, ripping out tufts of their own hair, and cutting themselves instead of calling for an ambulance. Surely God would hear such anguished cries and see their pain. After thirty-seven minutes, he awoke.

  Without making a sound, Jeremiah stood, wiping the drool and snot from his face. His congregation hooted and hollered their jubilant praises. They danced and tried to pat his shoulders and give high fives, but he urgently and robotically walked to his office at the back of the platform. The room settled somewhat until he reappeared about thirty seconds later chugging clear liquid from a gallon water jug, only it wasn’t water he drank. It was the poison he had been saving for a very special service during which God would invite the congregation to join Him in heaven.