Pointing at the images on the hundreds of tV screens, he passionately said, “Nephers, my friend, are any number of sub-species within a species that’s a sub-species of another two species which just so happen to originate from opposing dimensions of reality.”
“Dude, you’re killing me,” I grumbled with a blank look. “Let’s pretend I understood a fraction of what you just said. Just how many nephers are there running around out there?”
“Dean,” he replied laughing out loud. “How many humans are running around out there is the better question. For six thousand years the nephilim DNA has been winding its way through the gene pool of humanity. Shit, nine times out of ten you wouldn’t realize someone was a nepher if he was your best friend. And eight times out of ten he wouldn’t realize it either.”
“No, no, no,” I grumbled while shaking my head. “So you’re telling me that most people are nephers with these insane super human characteristics? No fucking way.”
“Is it really that hard to believe? Think about it. Just to start, think about all the exceptional people you’ve ever known. Or ever even heard about. Like, for example, professional athletes. You think a human can throw a baseball a hundred miles an hour or jump from the damn free-throw line and dunk a basketball?“
“Yeah,” I grumbled.
“Oh, Ok — what about running a mile in four minutes or bench pressing nine hundred pounds? How do you explain that?”
“Steroids,” I replied matter of factly.
“Steroids,” he scoffed. “Hell no. They’re not human. They’re nephers, man. Athletes, savants, artists, musicians, politicians, actors, business moguls, heads of state, the super rich, the super famous — society’s elite and affluent. Safe bet, they’re all nephers. God created humans equal, right? And yet some are not equal. They’re so freak’n off the chart advanced in certain aspects, it’s inconceivable. Unexplainable. So, how do you explain it?”
“Aliens,” I offered thinking a response of steroids was clearly not going to work a second time.
“Yeah right,” he said chuckling, “Although, that’s a popular theory. Especially after the Men in Black movies.”
“The what movie?”
“You know — MIB. They made like three movies. Will Smith. Tommy Lee Jones. Black suits. Sunglasses. Actually — really good.”
With a blank look, I simply shrugged my shoulders.
“Right,” he replied pensively. “Must’ve been after your time.”
“After my time? Are you perhaps referring to the fourteen years you had me floating in a tank of frigg’n holy water after having my ass kicked for the second time by the same fallen angel?”
“Ah, possibly,” he replied somewhat tentatively.
“Right,” I grumbled. “Do me a favor and don’t say that again. Like — as in ever again.”
“Noted,” he awkwardly replied. “But seriously, now that we’ve ruled out aliens … it’s simple, man. Interwoven bits and pieces of twisted divinity flowing through the veins of humanity, compliments of the nepher gene. Some folks are gifted with superior size — strength — agility. Others with inexplicable intellect — an uncanny ability to control thoughts or read minds — unnatural long life — an influence over nature or events — extra sensory perception — dashing good looks, etc.”
Pointing at the furry, muscle bound Caveman happily tending bar across the room, and then up at the tV screen displaying Uncle Skip, he said, “And yet some are gifted, or perhaps cursed, with other characteristics. More on the arcane side of the equation, if you know what I mean. The stuff of urban legends and bad reality shows.”
Trying my damnedest to wrap my head around what Rooster just dropped on me, I poured myself another man-sized dose of java, and said, “But, unlike the giants —”
“The anakim,” he said, correcting me.
“Anakim, right,” I grumbled, “Unlike the anakim, these other nephers aren’t subject to God’s Wrath? Smite with extreme prejudice kind of protocol?”
“Well, that’s the tricky part,” he replied following my lead and pouring himself more coffee. “Bit of a loop hole really. While the big guys are still public enemy numero uno, the lesser nephs are allowed to coexist with man if they live within the Rules set forth by the Father and enforced by the Guild.”
“This was so much easier when the bad guys were just giants … So, do all these nephers know they’re, ah, nephers?”
“Some do. Some don’t. We call those who know what they are ‘the Conscious’ and those who happily live their lives in ignorance ‘the Blind.’ Some nephers go their whole mortal life without a clue. Others are born into communities of Conscious and raised accordingly. Some are happy to operate within the Rules, masquerade as humans, and employ their talents to live a long, comfortable life. Others — not so much. Amongst other methods, we monitor them with throneView,” he said while glancing back at the tV screens. “Conscious or Blind — breaking the Rules, and therefore disrupting the Balance, means a visit from a Deacon.”
Thinking back to my encounter with a frantic Uncle Skipper, I muttered, “Game over.”
“Yeppers,” Rooster replied nodding his head. “Game over, man. Most nephers have the good fortune of laying eyes on a cloaked Deacon one time in their lives.” Tipping his mug to me, he said, “At the end.”
“That would make sense. Sort of,” I said while taking a healthy swig. “So how is it that you can tell a human from a nepher? That is, if they’re not covered in hair from head to toe, and have a pet piglet,” I asked while dumbfoundedly glancing across the room at Mick, the happy caveman, throwing a Frisbee to Duncan, who was jumping an easy five feet in the air and catching it in his tiny mouth.
“Good question,” he said nodding his head while giving me a little pointy hand gesture that he seemed to do when he got excited. “Most nephers look and act perfectly human. Except, of course, for the gothen which could look human until they take form or —,” doing some exaggerated a air quotes, “Neph Out — In which case they look like — well, we’ll get to that later. Baby steps, right?”
“Please.”
“Right. Ok, nephers have an inhuman aura about them. It’s subtle but you, as with all Deacons, can See it once you know what you’re looking for. Some are more pronounced than others, but once you develop your Sight nothing will be hidden from you.”
“I actually did notice something ‘off’ about Uncle Skip when I saw his fat ass up close. Was like a faint glow around his rotund frame,” I said, thinking out loud. Flashing back to the recurring words of Stephen, I muttered, “Open your eyes and See the evil in the world of man.”
“Exactly,” Rooster said nodding his head. “But, bear in mind that not all nephers are ‘evil’ per se. Some have renounced the inherent darkness that plagues their souls and turned to the light.”
“Like Caveman.”
“Like Caveman,” he agreed. “And all the nephilim serving in the Guild. Including yours truly.”
“You?” I blurted out. “You’re a nepher?”
“I am,” he said with a tinge of pride. “You’ll find that most gingers are. Let’s just say that red hair was not part of the Father’s original design. It’s a dead give away.”
“Son of a bitch,” I said reflecting on all the red heads that I’d known throughout my life. “That actually explains quite a bit.”
“Yeah, man. Gives context to that insane girlfriend you had in high school right?”
“How the hell do you know about that?”
“We have files,” he smugly replied with a shit-eating grin. “And, of course, it’s all available for download on throneView.”
Holding up a hand, I grumbled, “Before you ask, No, I don’t want to see any replays. The occasional nightmares are enough …”
“Figured as much,” he snickered under his breath. “But understand this, just as the Guild draws nephilim to the light, the Maradim pulls them in the other direction.”
“The Maradim. Azazel�
�s nepher army,” I said, recollecting an earlier conversation with Stephen.
“Not so much an army,” Rooster quickly replied. “More like a cult. A militant collection of miscreants. They see themselves as rebels fighting to liberate the Earth from the perceived persecution of Heaven — the tyranny of the Father. Strategically placed throughout humankind, they’re hidden in plain sight — serving Azazel with absolute loyalty. Once a nepher bears the mark of the Maradim, they are bound to the darkness — for all of eternity.”
“Awesome,” I muttered, thinking about the endless ramifications of a nepher secret society unbound by the covenants of Heaven. Feeling a need to lighten the mood a bit, I said, “What about M? Is she a nepher posing as a cute Jewish broad from Brooklyn?”
Practically choking on the sip of coffee he was attempting to drink, he solemnly said, “M? A nepher? No, man. M is most certainly not a nepher.”
“Well, she’s clearly not human,” I said matter of factly, “So, what’s the deal?”
Placing his mug on the table, he said solemnly, “M is timeless. She’s wind — light — hope — inspiration. Unbound wisdom and bestower of knowledge. The guardian of the western realm of Earth. A vigilant shepherd of humans and nephilim alike. She is Mariel — a principality class angel of the Third Triad. In all my years of service to the Guild I have yet to encounter a more powerful being.”
“Well, that would have been good information to share a bit earlier. Guess I should get used to her calling me ‘Bubba’ then.”
“Yes. Yes, you should. And it’s Bubbala. Not Bubba,” Rooster said coldly, as his eyes hardened and flashed a furious, blazing red for a quick second.
“Right,” I said making the mental note that I’d evidently hit a nerve. “Bubba-lah. Got it.” Trying to change the subject, I asked, “So, what’s your particular nepher talent?”
With his demeanor returning to the jovial ginger that I’d come to know and somewhat like, he said, “Making really good beer.”
“Amen, brother,” I muttered, figuring there was a bit more to Rooster than meets the eye. Making the mental note to revisit the topic at a later time, I said, “Where did M go anyway?”
“M’s a force of nature, man. No telling. She goes where she’s needed. Although, I have a sneaking suspicion she ported to Seventh Heaven to meet with Ramiel.”
“Ramiel,” I said recalling the earlier dialogue. “The angel that Big A seems to slightly dislike? The ‘skelpit arse’ as he so Scottishly put it.”
“Yeppers. That’s the one. But he’s no mere angel. He’s an archangel - Gabriel’s lieutenant. And trust me, arse is putting it mildly. Not a big fan of Deacons or the Guild. In fact, he pretty much hates our collective guts. Jealous, resentful, spiteful, you name it.” Pouring himself a third cup of coffee, he added, “Which is not terribly uncommon for the angelic, but he’s an exceptional prick. Bit of an asshole really.”
“Didn’t realize angels could be assholes.”
“Man, you have no idea. Aside from Gabriel, M, and our eyes in the sky — the ophanim, we don’t have many friends in the Heavenly Realms. Shit, we’re more popular with demons, believe it or not.”
“Demons, seriously?”
“Yeppers. They’re out of our jurisdiction so to speak. But I digress, that’s for another time,” he replied. “Back to your crash course. You ready? More coffee? How about some scones and Rooster Orange Butter? They’re sassy. You need to feed the machine, man. Your body is making up for not eating, for — well — fourteen years or so.”
Although I didn’t exactly know what a ‘scone’ was, the grumbling sensation emanating from the pit of my stomach made me want about fifty of them. “Fair enough. Scone me, Chickenman. Stephen did mention that they were the stuff of legend.”
“Whoa, the Alpha said that? Serious? Sa-weet,” said Rooster excitedly, while doing a little chickenman victory dance. “That’s excellent. Be right back.”
“Ok, sounds good. And please never do that again in my presence. It was disturbing. Feel like I need to wash my hands or something,” I called after him while topping off my coffee mug and shaking my head.
Sitting back in the chair, I panned around the surreal setting in attempt to process the volumes of mind-blowing information I’d just received. Talk about a conspiracy theory. ‘Humans — the minority race.’
Sort of gives some ominous context to Planet of the Apes. I knew that frigg’n movie creeped me out for good reason. Right about then I had a horrible thought.
Charlton Heston — a nepher?
“No frigg’n way,” I affirmably grumbled to myself. “Not a chance.”
As I wrestled with that particular dilemma for a quick moment, my attention was drawn to the far side of the room where the front door to the Quartermaster boldly swung open and morning sunlight poured into the dimly lit bar. Tentatively standing at the threshold was the silhouette of a young man in his early twenties intently peering inside. Never actually stepping foot in the room, he simply stood there making visual sweeps back and forth like he was looking for something. Something he couldn’t see. Rooster actually walked right past him with a mountainous tray of pastry on his way back to the table, and the guy didn’t look twice at him. Nor did Rooster pay him any attention.
As he deposited the mound of delectable treats on the table, I pointed at the dude and asked, “Who the hell’s that?”
Without so much as looking back, he simply replied, “I dunno. He’s been by the past couple days. Evidently not quite ready.”
“Not ready for what?” I impatiently asked. “What’s he doing? It’s like he can’t see us.”
“He can’t,” he said carefully placing scones on a couple of bronze plates. Opening a small mason jar of orange-tinted butter he began to methodically apply it. “He’s drawn here. But he doesn’t know why yet. He’s a Gifted — a human with a divine purpose. You know, like prophets, seers, witnesses, healers, etc. If I had to guess, he’s probably looking at an empty room at the moment. Searching for a glimpse of something to prove to himself that he’s not completely losing his mind. Poor bastard.”
Handing me a fully buttered scone, he added, “However, once he develops his Sight, the Quartermaster will be revealed and he’ll be able to cross the threshold. Then we’ll get him squared away. That’s how it works.”
“This just keeps getting better,” I muttered while happily accepting the warm, buttery little piece of heaven.
Stuffing the flakey goodness into my watering mouth with extreme prejudice, I was not disappointed. Pointing at Rooster, I mumbled, “Holy shit. Scones are good.”
Chuckling at the carnage of crumbs I’d spewed across the table, he replied, “Believe it or not, they’re even better if you manage to keep a little bit in your mouth.”
Casually flipping him off, I happily chomped on another one while slurping down some coffee. “So, you said when boy wonder over there gets ‘his Sight’ he’ll be able to enter the Quartermaster — How’s that work?”
“Ok. What I said was that he’ll able to cross the threshold, and the Quartermaster will be revealed. The QM’s a gateway to Badenoch — the Seventh Realm of Third Heaven. A world between worlds, so to speak. If you have reason to be inside — you are afforded the ability to cross the threshold. If not, the warding prevents it with an uber powerful veiling spell. You must have felt it when you walked in.”
“I did feel it,” I said thinking back to the wave of energy I experienced when entering the door from Westland Ave. “Did you say it’s a spell? Like in magic?”
“One thing at a time, my friend. We’ll get to that at some point. For now, just understand that thresholds have power. Wards and veils are used by us as well as those we hunt. You’ll quickly learn that things are seldom as they appear. Make sure you use your Sight before storming through a door.”
“Forbidden knowledge,” I muttered, finally registering what he was talking about.
“Yep. You got it,” he said shifting his focus
to my unrelenting eating display. “Why don’t you grab a couple scones to-go and follow me.” Standing up and walking toward a large wooden door in the back of the room, he added, “Need to show you a few more things.”
Somewhat disgruntled that my chow fest was being disturbed, I grabbed the entire tray and begrudgingly followed him.
Reaching the door, he stopped and said, “Ok, so as you’ve figured out, the QM is a bit more than just a place to get some kick-ass grub and incredible beer. Aside from being the earthly gate to the Seventh Realm and a refuge for Guild members, it’s also our tactical command center, so to speak.”
“Of course it is,” I muttered.
“Behind this door is the Reliquary — the heart of the Quartermaster,” he said pointing to the large doorway covered completely with Enochian glyphs and other sigils I didn’t recognize. “It’s our direct link to Tenth Heaven where the ophanim beam down their all seeing sight, and we translate it into battlefield intelligence, for lack of a better description.” In a self congratulatory tone, he boasted, “Man, I’ve got tech in there that would make NASA shit themselves.”
“A chef, a brew master, and a computer geek,” I said stuffing another scone down my throat. “Didn’t see that coming. I’m shocked. No, seriously. Shocked.”
“Are you finished?”
“For the moment,” I muttered, making the mental note that he wasn’t appreciating the sarcasm so much.
“Great,” he dryly replied. “Follow me. And Dean, what ever you do … don’t touch anything. She needs to warm up to you first.”
Thinking that was one hell of an odd thing to say, I simply replied, “She?”
Ignoring me, he placed his hands on the two glyphs in the center of the door, and I watched in wonderment as it swung open to reveal an intense, unyielding white radiance. Shielding my eyes in response, I struggled to keep Rooster in focus.
Rise of the Giants: The Guild of Deacons, Book 1 Page 17
