Verity Rising (Gods of Deceit Book 1)

by Phil Scott Mayes

  “Yeah! I’ll be there,” I reply, surprised by my own excited grin.

  “Good! I’ll see you later then. We usually start at ten in the mornin’ at the school gym. I’ll see you there!”

  She strolls off in the crisp golden air and I devour the entire plate of fruit without setting it down. A bland hour passes during which I complete my usual morning hygiene, retrieve my chilled but dry clothing, tidy up my room, and wash the only dirty dish in the house. Afterward I dress and take a seat on the small landing outside the front door to think and take in the beautiful, steadily warming day.

  Fifteen minutes before my nine o’clock blood test appointment, I make my way to the school building next door in an effort to impress my future leadership with my punctuality. As I stroll the short stretch of sidewalk between my cottage and the school, fast, measured steps suddenly approach from behind until Vic jogs past with a hand-flip wave and a breathy “Hey, Ted.”

  “Morning, Vic,” I greet as he runs along without looking back.

  Vic is black, a little taller than me, and lanky. He’s quieter than some of the others, but equally friendly. Despite knowing him the least out of any of the campfire attendees, I know that he and I will get along. Simply based off of his demeanor around the others and the few comments that he made, I can tell that he’s the Nephilim I have the most in common with personality-wise in Carver.

  I reach the school entrance and pull open the door with renewed determination. It appears no one is here yet, so I indulge my curiosity with a private walkthrough. The hallway of the school is a pleasant surprise. It’s a little dark. The only light inside is whatever the sun can manage to force through the discolored skylights and the dusty windows, but it’s clean and organized, unlike any of the other businesses or public structures in town. If the lights were on, I’d say the school is ready to pick up right where it left off fifty years ago. The floors are swept, the ceiling tiles are all in place and accounted for, and the desks and chairs are still neatly arranged in each room. Upon my perfunctory survey I don’t see any notable disrepair or decay. The only thing missing from this still frame of historic Carver life is the kids’ prized artwork and assignments hanging on the lockers and bulletin bar strips.

  Such a small town had no need for multiple schools, and they managed to comfortably fit first through twelfth grade down one central corridor. Six classrooms flank each side of the hall, with several offices and additional classrooms down another, shorter wing of the building. At the end of that shorter wing is a small gymnasium with just enough room for a basketball court and a couple rows of bleachers on one side. As I made the short walk over here, I noticed a large house across from the school that had been repurposed as a preschool and kindergarten, accounting for the remaining educational needs of the once-promising little town.

  My nosiness satisfied, I walk back toward the entrance and front office to await Reb’s arrival. I reach the doors and glance out the front windows. Across the street, a row of buildings basks in the heat of the morning sun, and in front of them, as if standing on the sidewalk, is another wobbling, transparent mirage. Perhaps it’s the same one, I don’t know.

  I lean closer to the window and squint to focus my vision. It’s just standing there on the sidewalk. The feeling of being watched presses in heavily around me. Just as I place my hands on the door’s handlebar and push it open, Reb, Mel, and Doc round the corner of the entryway. Mel immediately spots my strange fixation across the street and looks over her shoulder, then back to me without seeming to see anything. For me, the mirage is still there.

  As Mel steps into the foyer, she eagerly asks, “What were you looking at? Did you see it again?” Her furrowed brow and higher-than-usual pitch implies a raised level of concern compared to last time.

  “Yes, and I’m still seeing it,” I answer without releasing the mirage from my gaze.

  She quickly slides in next to me and asks, “Where do you see it?”

  Reb, moving gingerly, takes a touch longer to reach my left flank, while Doc just turns and looks from where he stands.

  “Do you see the tan brick building with the red trim?”

  “Yes,” Reb and Mel reply simultaneously.

  “Look about eight feet to the left of the door on the other side of the big window. It looks like a heat mirage. It’s just squiggly, bending light, probably seven or eight feet tall. Do any of you see it?” I ask.

  Silence.

  An answer in itself. Between these mirages and my repeat visits from the rogue Nephilim, I’m beginning to doubt my own sanity. Maybe these things are manifestations of the psychological and emotional strain of the past few days. Either way, I’m now embarrassing myself and I decide against mentioning my nightmare.

  “Sorry, Ted. I don’t see anything,” responds Reb.

  “Nothing here either,” says Mel.

  “I don’t understand. I can still see it. It’s just standing there,” I add, deflated. I continue watching the mirage, preferring its taunting glimmer to the judgment I assume is written on their faces.

  Reb, unfazed by my hallucinations, supportively offers, “Well, we can go with you if you want to investigate or we can head to the science room to do the test. It’s your call.”

  As nice as it is for him to humor what he probably sees as delusions, it’s unlikely anything beneficial will come of investigation, and the potential danger seems untenable. Of course, that’s only if there actually is something there to investigate and it’s not just in my head. In that case, it would only further whatever doubts they have about my membership in the alliance.

  “Let’s just do the test. I don’t know what’s going on with me. Maybe I just need glasses, maybe it’s in my head, but I don’t want to waste everyone’s time,” I concede.

  “Sure thing, man. Right this way,” Doc says without wasting a second.

  He crosses behind us and we peel away from the windows to follow. Partway down the shorter wing of the building he makes a left and takes us into the school’s science lab. Even darker than the hallway, I reflexively reach for the light switch and give it a flick as I enter. The fluorescent bulbs tick sporadically as they try to ignite, but before they succeed, Mel flips the switch back off and says, “We don’t use the school lights unless we have to.”

  As Doc opens the window blinds on the far wall, Reb says, “We only left a bulb in each fixture, but there are still enough lights in this building alone to overwhelm both generators. About the test, do you have a vial of blood for the test or do we need to draw some?”

  Doc moves to the other side of a lab table where a relatively simple contraption sits. He takes the lid off of the central container and twists the dial on a meter. He touches two probes together, gets the indication he’s looking for, shuts the meter off, and then attaches the probes with clamps onto each side of the container. I slip my hand into the pocket of my overalls to grab the vial that I just can’t quite break the habit of carrying.

  “I’ve got a vial with me, but I’m guessing you suspected as much,” I respond.

  “Yep, we did. You’re old school, Ted. Traditional Nephilim always have a vial,” Doc says before he extends an open hand.

  I give the vial over to Doc and watch with uneasy anticipation as he pours my precious blood into the clear glass container. He replaces the container’s lid and locks it in place with a quick twist.

  Mel steps alongside me and asks, “Nervous?”

  “A little.”

  “Thankfully, you won’t have to wait long,” Doc notes. “The test is quick and easy. Blood goes in, I turn on the modified multimeter, blood enjoys some good vibrations, and I read the resistance. We discovered during some early experiments that the organism in Nephilim blood—we call it the scintilla—creates electromagnetic fields through its movement and interaction with itself and with the body’s nervous system. Its movement creates friction, and the friction yields an electric charge which excites the scintilla, causing a discharge of electromag
netic energy. Basically, the more of the scintilla you have, the higher your angelic blood purity and the better your blood conducts electricity—the lower its electrical resistance. Oh, and just FYI, there’s no putting this blood back in the vial. Your scintilla’s gonna be a little toasted.”

  “And remember, there’s nothing to fret. You’re welcome here no matter the outcome,” Reb adds.

  Doc, his hand on the dial of the meter, looks across the lab table and asks, “Ready?”

  I nod and Doc clicks the meter’s dial into position. The blood instantly reacts to the electric current with flares of light like fireflies. At first, they float slowly through the red, viscous liquid, then faster and faster. The others’ faces deform first with confusion, then concern as pea-sized lights zip around the container, radiating an intensifying light before appearing to burst and diffuse. The blood begins to surge as if boiling. Rolling mounds of red precede frenetic oscillations, captivating the wonder of the group.

  At this point it’s clear that the test isn’t going as planned, but the sight is so mesmerizing that it draws the four of us toward the cylinder. The blood continues to churn with racing, flashing lights, a submerged thunderstorm of yellow, red, and occasional, brilliant white. We lean over the table and study the cosmic sight, but our collective awe is shattered when the lid of the container launches upward with enough force to hit the ceiling. Tiny yellow lightning bolts reach for the top of the cylinder as we all stumble back from the device.

  Reb shouts, “Shut it off! Now!”

  Doc lunges for the device and twists the dial, shutting off the meter and the flow of electricity. The contents of the container settle quickly. Steam trails upward and a quiet sizzling vibrates the glass.

  “What was that?” Mel cries to Doc. “Did the tester malfunction?”

  “No, the device is fine, but I’ve never seen blood do that,” replies Doc.

  “Did you get the resistance reading?” Reb asks.

  Doc nods to himself and says, “Yeah, but with that reaction I’m not sure if it’s accurate.”

  “Well, what was the result? What’s my percentage?” I anxiously ask.

  Doc grabs a notepad and pencil. “Hold on, I have to do the calculation. The resistance measurement in ohms has to be converted to a percentage.”

  “But you said that the lower the resistance, the higher the purity of my blood, right? So, you could just compare resistance measurements with the other Nephilim to have an idea.”

  Doc stops writing and says, “Yes, but we figured out a formula that factors in the total range of realistic measurements. If you don’t account for the range, there’s no way of knowing if a one-ohm difference is a change of one percent or fifty percent. Just let me do this calculation and I’ll tell you.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry. I’m just anxious and confused. Why did my blood do that? That’s not normal, right?”

  Reb fields my question, saying, “I don’t know, Ted. In all my years, this is a new one.”

  My mind races as I ask, “What does it mean? Is there something wrong with me?”

  “None of us know,” Mel states calmly, soothingly, “but we will do our best to find answers. Do you have more vials of blood?”

  “No. I had some in my briefcase, but I left Milburn Tower in such a hurry that they’re still locked in the safe in my office, hopefully.”

  She places a soft hand on my shoulder. “Let’s draw some more for them to test while we’re training, and they’ll let you know what they find. Sound good?”

  “Sure, that’s fine,” I answer, still eagerly awaiting Doc’s calculation.

  Just then, Doc finally pipes up, “Got it! Ready, Teddy?” He raises an eyebrow in a goofy inquisitive look. When he sees the lack of amusement on all of our faces he says, “Sorry. Never had good comedic timing.”

  “We’re ready,” Reb answers for all of us.

  “Thirty-eight percent. Not bad, Ted. I told you, you had nothing to worry about!”

  His positivity only increases my edge. Thirty-eight percent is disappointing despite knowing it was unlikely to be much higher. My mistake was allowing a part of my heart to be so naively optimistic as to hope for at least fifty percent. I make no effort to hide my disappointment, which the others easily notice.

  Reb combats my chagrin, saying, “Ted, thirty-eight percent is really high. Actually, that puts you in the five highest here. Fifty percent is quite uncommon. Realistically, you would have to be first generation Nephilim or the child of generations of fifty percenters to maintain that number.” He puts a hand on my other shoulder and says peacefully, “You should be happy, Ted. This is good news.”

  I nod, hoping that the physical act of affirmation will influence my attitude. Mathematically speaking, he’s right, I couldn’t have hoped for much better. Coming into this I felt like a Nephilim joke, but thirty-eight percent is respectable, and I’m actually feeling somewhat validated. Everyone else’s positivity is also helping to encourage my acceptance and hasten my embrace of this outcome.

  “So, what happens next?” I inquire.

  Mel wraps her arm completely around my shoulders and replies, “Let’s get your blood drawn and then I’ll take you to the gym to start training. We’ll start with physical combat in various styles and mix in sessions of Nephilim abilities along the way. Everyone’s always eager to hit the Nephilim stuff so let me just get ahead of you on that. Nephilim abilities have their place in this war, but they’re not particularly useful as offensive or even defensive skills. Hand-to-hand combat is where this war has always been won and lost.”

  I’d ask why hand-to-hand combat is the preferred method of engagement, but I already know. All Nephilim, good, evil, or somewhere in the middle, are better off keeping a low profile. Weapons of any kind increase the chance of dead Nephilim, police, autopsies, media attention, and the worldwide exposure of our existence. The world isn’t (and will probably never be) ready for that. Corrupt Nephilim could no longer hide in plain sight making themselves rich and powerful. Every suicide would be first investigated as a Nephilim sowing. We would be hunted, imprisoned, and killed by humanity.

  Fistfights, even those including blunt objects and knives, won’t make the small-town evening news. We are strong enough to inflict mortal wounds on humans and against each other, but killing Nephilim leaves a body that must be disposed of quietly. Guns leave witnesses and attract police like flies to dung, especially in an era of mass casualty active shooter violence. Using our hands keeps things quiet and allows us more control over the level of damage we inflict.

  Reb draws a few vials of blood and tapes me up, then I follow Mel to the gym where we start my training. As we cover the basics of grappling and kickboxing, she is a rough but patient teacher. Despite our repeatedly intertwined bodies, I remain surprisingly focused, which is more likely a result of my intense desire to impress her than of a lack of romantic interest. My chest spasms as we tangle and brawl in Nephilim form. The foreignness of taking my true form in the light of day with witnesses is exhilarating and liberating, but to do so with Mel by my side, also in Nephilim form and without the whispers of my guilty conscience, is downright euphoric.

  We zip through the basics and by lunch are ready to move into some intermediate combat. Though I’ve never had any formal hand-to-hand combat training, the skills are coming naturally and fighting already feels second nature. I know Mel is still holding back, but I’m seeing the fight clearly in my mind, and once my technical skills catch up to my understanding, I’ll be formidable. If only I had this training before I faced Jan.

  Lunch break comes and goes, and we’re back on the mats before our food settles. Several others join in for the afternoon session, making the experience ever more surreal. Surrounded by my own kind—giants of the earth—we train and spar, sharpening our bodily weapons while others hone their Nephilim abilities in the other half of the basketball court. When I’m not distracted, staring at the other side of the court in the hope of seeing someth
ing spectacular, I’m holding my own against everyone but Vic and Mel. They’re taller than me, stronger than me, and are far more experienced fighters.

  Still, Mel seems pleased with my technical progress and tactical acumen as I practice the physical techniques and learn how to best employ them. At four in the afternoon, after almost six hours of combat training, Mel decides that’s enough fighting for the day and that it’s time for an introduction to Nephilim abilities. I slam a couple of water bottles and trot to meet Mel on the other side of the gym when I hear my name being called from the gym entrance.

  “Ted,” shouts Doc, “Reb and I finished our tests. Come talk to us.”

  I look to Mel, who is already moving my direction, and we make our way back to the science lab. Her presence is comforting and settles my nerves as we round the corner and look upon Reb and Doc’s troubled expressions.

  “What did you find?” I ask impatiently, still a few steps from the table.

  Doc fields my question, saying, “So, man, we tested a fresh vial of your blood and it had the exact same crazy reaction. Oh, and just FYI, the resistance readings were identical to the results from our first test. Then we tested a vial of Reb’s blood to confirm the device’s proper operation and it worked like normal, so there’s nothing wrong with the device. Finally, we took a look at the scintilla in your blood under a microscope.” He inserts a pregnant pause before finishing, “We found some anomalies, man.”

  “Anomalies? What kind of anomalies?” Mel asks, beating me to the punch.

  Reb sighs and answers for Doc, saying, “We don’t know.”

  “Well, can you at least say if it’s a good thing or something I should be worried about?” I ask, desperate for some emotional direction.

  “We really don’t know, Ted. I’m sorry, but none of us are biologists and even if we were, there isn’t exactly a library of literature published about Nephilim biology and the anatomy of the scintilla,” Doc responds.

  “Seriously?” I ask incredulously. Their lack of reply speaks for itself. “Okay then. This just keeps getting better.”