“What is that supposed to mean?”
“As easy as it was for me to deceive you, you must barely be Nephilim at all. You’ve got that weak blood, diluted nearly to the point of irrelevance. You’re obviously far more human than angel.” With each word her posture is increasingly aggressive and her tongue more venomous. She continues, snarling, “That’s why I’m taller. That’s why I’m stronger. That’s why I’m twice the Nephilim you are! I’m a saint for even giving you a chance to join me. I should snuff you out where you stand.”
Every word is a detonation of my worldview. Her verbal hacking and slashing has failed to cause pain, but it has produced fear. What if she’s actually telling the truth? What if my entire life is a lie? I’m not sure that’s something I could survive, and I hate her for feeding such doubts. My prickly instincts of self-preservation activate and hatred swallows my self-control whole.
Like a hissing stovetop burner, my brain is consumed by the electric snapping of her lips, each word one spark closer to my flashpoint. In a moment of blind rage, I rapidly tense the muscles along my spine and I lunge for Jan’s throat, grabbing it with my right hand. My veins ignite, providing a rush of strength that allows me to lift her clear off the ground. The phone drops from her hold as I take the high ground.
“I’m tired of this game,” I growl. Her feet dangle as I squeeze with all my might and snarl like a rabid dog. Harvey pounces from his chair, but before he can even reach us, Jan’s feet are no longer dangling and I feel her lengthening neck stretch within my grasp. Her left arm swings wide, pushing the hulking Harvey back into his seat as if he were a mere child.
She barks to Harvey, “I’ll handle this,” then grabs my wrist with her right hand and peels herself free. Crushing pressure nearly snaps the bones in my forearm and drops me to my knees. From the corner of my eye I see the board, looking on in bewilderment at this battle of otherworldly beings. I imagine they’re rooting for me, hoping to be set free from Jan’s tyranny. Another pump of her vice-like grip drops me closer to the floor, bringing to my attention the scissors that lie below Thomas’s right hand and well within my reach.
I snatch them up and swing violently and recklessly in Jan’s direction, hoping to hit any part of her. She releases my right arm and twists her torso, bringing her right arm across to block the scissors while also landing a strong left hook to the side of my head. Her fist hits like a sledgehammer. It knocks me over and slams the other side of my head against the edge of the conference table on my way down. I collapse to the floor, disoriented and bleeding from a gash where my head met the table.
Lying on the floor with bits of wood strewn around my throbbing head, the knot in my throat heralds a burst of vomit. The ringing in my ears subsides and my eyes regain their focus just in time to see Jan grimacing as she extracts the scissors that are lodged straight through the back of her hand and out of her palm. Her pain becomes fury as I attempt to stand and find my footing.
She charges me and pins me to the wall. It takes a second of frothy grunting and struggling from both of us before I recognize the feeling of sharp metal against my skin. The scissors straddle my throat, splayed wide and pressed tightly to each side of my neck. The steel, warmed with the blood of multiple victims, threatens to add me to the list. I’m certain she can’t sever my head entirely with these paper-cutting implements but, as strong as she is, she could come close. I knew she was taller than me, but in my wildest imagination I never would have expected such a difference in strength.
“THAT’S QUITE ENOUGH OF THIS LITTLE TANTRUM,” she screams, spitting on my face in the process.
I raise my hands in surrender. A drop of blood blends with sweat in a swirling trickle down my left temple. Each pounding pulse is a battering ram trying to breach my skull. My heavy breathing settles with the scissors forcing my compliance. Jan hardly seems winded in the slightest as she asks, annoyed, “Are you going to behave now, Mr. Verity?”
The return of my sanity brings the realization that I would never win a straight-up brawl with Jan, much less one with Harvey ready to pounce the moment I have the upper hand. I give her a reluctant nod. She withdraws the scissors and we both return to our human form. My hand stops to rub my neck on its way to my throbbing temple.
Harvey chimes in with his gravelly voice, “Ma’am, he touched the scissors, you touched the scissors, your blood is on them; this is getting messier.”
“Oh, Harvey, you worry too much. All of that is easily explained with the right lie. Three sets of prints are on the scissors along with two victims’ blood, neither of which is his. I don’t know about you, Harvey, but as I recall we tried to subdue him after we realized what he had done to Thomas and Stacy. He grabbed the scissors and fought back, stabbing me through the hand.”
“Yes, ma’am. I remember it the same,” he responds.
Jan bends down and retrieves her phone, then faces the conference table. “What about you, cowering leeches? How’s your memory?”
Their disappointment in me is painted on their faces as they quickly calculate the outcome of rejecting their oppressor. Jan dials the same three numbers on her phone and turns the screen toward me without breaking her glare at the board of directors. Like popcorn, scattered nods begin to jitter from around the table. They each mumble their own version of “We see whatever you want us to see” and Jan aims her smug mug back to me.
“Well, Ted, it’s your move and I wouldn’t recommend resorting to violence again. Next time you pull that shit, Harvey and I will race to see who can kill you first. I may not be faster than a bullet, but I can guarantee you I’ll win,” she taunts with a sideways glance to her pet monster.
“Don’t count your chickens, ma’am,” the monster replies. “I could kill this one with my bare hands. You’re right. He’s soft, almost human.” He forces a proud chuckle at the insult he’s added to my injury.
I ignore his cheap shot with a snort before I lock red-hot eyes with Jan. Never before have I felt such a volcanic eruption of primal rage. It’s not just her wholesale disregard for life and virtue, it’s personal. She attacked the very essence of my identity, the truths that inform my purpose and, by extension, she defamed my parents’ integrity. Still, she’s a practiced liar and her willingness to say or do anything for her own benefit means I’ll never confirm those claims here. I scrape the last of my self-control from the bottom of its hollow reservoir and respond to Jan calmly.
“You know my answer. You’ve always known what it would be, so this little charade was just a stage for you to make a fool of me. No trap could convince me to forsake everything I hold true. I will never join you, I will never reject my calling, and I will never forget what you did here tonight. You and whoever else is like you are a disease to the Nephilim race and to the world, and even if it takes the rest of my life, I vow that I will find a cure. When I find it, you can be damned sure I’ll return and, with great pleasure, I will wipe you out.”
“Ooh, good speech,” she snarks. Jan looks at Trent and, as her thumb taps the phone screen, orders, “Take off your dress shirt and smear their blood on yourself and the shirt. Touch their wounds and leave plenty of bloody fingerprints. I don’t want the cops asking why we didn’t try to save them.”
From a couple feet away I can hear the muted ringing through the earpiece. The voice of an operator answers the call as Jan dials up the drama.
“Please help. I’ve been stabbed and two other people are dead!” she shouts tearfully into the phone. The panic in her voice is incredibly believable. She truly is a master of her craft. The patient, methodical voice on the other end of the call speaks its reply as I stand, prepared to make my exit. My movement draws everyone’s attention, the board clearly hoping that it’s the start of another attack, one that I win this time.
“We’re on the thirteenth floor of Milburn Tower. You have to hurry. There’s a lot of blood and the maniac is getting away!” she says, raising her eyebrows at me as if to ask whether or not I’m getting awa
y.
Of course I’m going to escape. My mission can’t end with me in cuffs and Jan roaming free. She has made herself my new obsession. If I fail to accomplish anything else in this life, it won’t matter as long as I take her down. The thought crossed my mind to just sit right here in this room until the cops arrive. Staying put certainly looks less suspicious. I could pit my narrative, the truth, against the nine of them and let the evidence speak for itself. Except that Jan is right: whatever evidence they find will point clearly in my direction after Joel and Dave. I’m already on their radar and they’ll just see this circus as confirmation of their suspicions, even if they can’t fully explain my involvement. I have to run, to regroup.
It has to be worth something to have the truth on my side. Famous quotes aside, I believe and pray that truth is the great equalizer. No amount of evil or deceit can forever subdue the truth. Like the delicate tendril that grows from a concrete slab, truth will always work its way into the light of day. It is resilient and it is immutable.
I didn’t kill Thomas and Stacy, I’m not responsible for the Fosillix trial, and Jan is downright diabolical. Layer upon layer of dirt cannot bury these facts forever. All I have to do is survive tonight and hold out long enough to find the antidote for their evil. Until then, I will run.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Suddenly, the choice between the elevator and the stairs has taken on unusual gravity. I wipe the blood from my head with my dark coat sleeve and decide that the staircase is the more logical option. My stronger bones can handle the beating from leaping down each flight of stairs, which makes my descent faster than the elevator and gives me the option to exit quickly if needed to dodge the authorities. At this stage, speed is of the essence. Escaping the building before the police arrive is probably the only chance I have at avoiding capture. There aren’t enough avenues of escape and no amount of ducking behind doors is going to help me once the cops have the building locked down.
As my feet stomp onto the fourth-floor landing, the metallic report of a stairwell door resonates from below. My exhausted heart stops entirely as I lean over the center handrail, trying to catch a glimpse of who’s approaching, but I can’t see anything. They must be staying close to the wall. Over his flat-footed plodding up the stairs, I can hear his whiny voice blabbing about his client’s inalienable rights—he’s not a cop. I bound down another flight, then take it one step at a time to avoid suspicion as we pass each other.
The balding, bespectacled stranger nears and I offer a courteous head-tilt greeting. He gives me a buggy look through his gold, wire-rimmed glasses, ignores my greeting, and returns to his important call. “I gotta call you back,” he says as he reaches the next landing. I glance back and finding him looking at me before dialing another number on his phone. Does he recognize me? Probably another of Jan’s spies. I go back to leaping down the stairs.
My shoes slap against the second-floor landing as another metallic ka-chunk echoes up the chamber. With nowhere to hide in the stairwell, I push through the nearest door, entering the bustling second-floor food court. For the average employee on the go, this level provides an assortment of dining options. Everything from a smoothie cabana, to fast food, to a full-service sports bar surround the elevator shafts and stairwell at the core of Milburn Tower. Those with more refined palates and discriminating eyes typically dine at Orchid Song, the four-star restaurant on the sixty-fifth floor. The only local restaurant that can boast a higher elevation and better views of the Pacific and the Port Ellis skyline is Talon’s Landing situated at the top of the Pika Crest Tramway, but their food isn’t nearly as good.
The late evening hour is a popular time for the Milburn workaholics to either grab a bite before returning to their offices for more work, or eat their dinner before embarking on the hour-long commute back to the suburbs. On the other side of the stairwell door, several pairs of heavy boots tramp hurriedly toward and past the second-floor exit. I bob clear of the window then, as the thudding fades, take a quick peek that reveals what I hoped not to see. A uniformed police officer grips the handrail as he turns the corner toward the third floor.
I scan my surroundings, looking for any avenue of escape or at least a place to lay low. Each of the restaurants has its own front counter with a small kitchen behind it. Most will have walk-in freezers and refrigerators, ingredient pantries, or other places to hide, but as busy as this place is I wouldn’t stay hidden for long. About a dozen tables stand between me and any of the restaurant counters, and half of them are occupied by men and women in suits. A quick survey of their faces registers several that I’ve seen in passing—no one that’s likely to know my name, but some that could know I’m from Pentastar. To my right and at the north end of the floor is an open dining area with plenty of seating and windows that overlook the building’s main entrance on Sixth Street.
From where I stand, the view through those windows would normally be the bland, concrete wall of the building across the street. Only when seated at the window bar can one see the street below with its honking cars, drab suits, and balding heads. But tonight that bland wall dances with colors like a Vegas billboard. Reds, blues, and purples wag and prance along the porous concrete, lighting up the mostly vacant tables and chairs of the dining area like a dance club. I make my way toward the window to assess the severity of my circumstances.
An abstract masterpiece, eight squad cars sit motionless at all angles in the street. Their flashing emergency lights are blinding even from twenty-five feet up. The police have responded en masse to lock down Milburn Tower and apprehend a killer, and there is little hope that I’ll make it out of here without steel bracelets tightened around my wrists.
I desperately brainstorm for a solution as more and more people scurry to the windows from around the dining room. Two more squad cars arrive, sirens screaming, and a couple of satellite dishes move into position atop white news vans. The longer I wait to act, the tighter they’ll have this place sealed. In less than a minute, it seems that the whole second floor has flanked me at the windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mayhem or, better yet, get a dramatic video for their social media followers. A large flock of cell phones migrates overhead as their owners offer up ignorant commentary about the unfolding drama. To avoid starring in their recordings, I make a hasty retreat from the crowd.
The sight of such a multitude of phones reminds me of my own phone that spends the majority of its week swimming around in my pocket, forgotten. Ordinarily, I find it to be a rather useless device. I have no social media accounts and never will. The only reason I even own a phone is because of my position at Pentastar. Outside of Milburn Tower, I have no real friends and can’t imagine that ever changing after my horrifying experience opening up to Jan. That said, I may yet have a single friend in this world willing to help.
Only one person I know could possibly help me get out without detection, but it’s a huge ask and he could just as easily turn me over to the cops. I slide my phone out and dial. After three rings, I begin to lose hope that he’ll answer. I hold out for the answering service, but the line is answered on the fifth ring.
“Milburn Tower Security Desk, this is Barry,” he answers, sounding much more professional than expected.
“Hi Barry, I’d like to talk to Tyson, please.” I close my eyes and hope he doesn’t recognize my voice.
“Tyson is occupi—, actually he’s headed this way now. Hold just a moment,” he says politely. Then in a quieter voice as he reaches for the hold button, he mumbles, “No one ever asks for Barry. Why can’t Barry get no love?” Then the line mutes.
“This is Tyson with Milburn Tower Security.”
“Tyson, it’s Ted. Before you react, I need you to hear me out.”
A long pause follows, during which I find a seat at a back corner table with a clear view of the elevators and stairs. The gaggle by the window chatters loudly enough for me to hear their conjecture about which Pentastar employee killed themselves this time. Sordid chuckle
s follow as several names are thrown out, none of which are mine.
Tyson finally speaks in a hushed tone, “Sorry, I had to get a little space from these curious ears. Mr. Verity, where are you? The police are sweeping the building looking for you. They’re locked and loaded and saying you’re some kind of monster.”
“Do you believe what they’re saying?”
“I don’t know. You’ve always been kind and honest with me; not exactly monstrous qualities. Plus there’s that sense you get about a person. I’ve always thought of you as a good man. Honestly, when I heard what happened upstairs I half-expected to hear that Jan did it. I’ve always had a bad feeling about her. But lately you’ve been acting strange and your relationship with Jan is concerning.”
“You’re on the right track about Jan. She betrayed me, set me up, played me at every turn. Tyson, she’s evil. She’s responsible for all of this darkness. Between her and that juggernaut she trots around on a leash, they account for the Pentastar drug trial disaster, Dave’s death, and the two murders in that conference room tonight. Who knows what else they’ve done. I’m the only one who knows what she really is and I’m the only one who can take her down, but not if I’m behind bars. I need you to help me get out of here.”
“Let’s say I believe you. The cops have the building surrounded and if I get caught helping you, I’ll be charged as an accomplice. It won’t matter whether or not you did what they say. If Jan has you as dead to rights as you claim, the evidence will give them all the proof they need to put both of us away for life. The truth doesn’t matter, only what you can convince people is true.”
I sigh. He’s right, and it pains me to admit that the truth is meaningless. It should always be supremely important, the only thing that matters in situations like these, but is instead impotent without the ability to prove it. Still, as much as I hate putting Tyson in this position, I’ll never make it out of here to gain the proof I need without his help. I press a little harder.
Verity Rising (Gods of Deceit Book 1) Page 17