Verity Rising (Gods of Deceit Book 1)

by Phil Scott Mayes

  Jeremiah drank a liter, maybe more, before he dropped the jug and clawed violently at his abdomen. He cried out in agony and tore his shirt open. His continued clawing smeared the blood from his incessant scratching all over his chest and stomach. Then came the vomiting. He dropped to his hands and knees and started heaving dryly, then productively, over and over. First came his breakfast, then eventually a swirled mixture of blood and a mucus-like fluid, and, finally, chunks that looked like the important soft tissue of his internal organs. During a brief pause in the retching, he sat back on his heels and with blood seeping from his eye sockets and nostrils, drenching his chin, tried to say something. He ended up choking on his own blood and collapsing as he drowned in his liquified insides. During the weeping and gnashing of teeth, I walked away unnoticed.

  Despite a few minor hitches in the sowings between Jeremiah Daniels and my arrival at Pentastar, all of those missions were entirely one-dimensional. A lone, irrefutably devious person was ruining lives—one target, one sowing, no mess. It wasn’t just the simplicity of only performing one sowing that made them go so smoothly. It was the emotional distance.

  I never mingled with my targets during those missions like I have with this one. I didn’t take a job at the Bailey family of dealerships, I didn’t join the Daniels cult and live amongst them, and I didn’t interact with any of my previous targets the way I’ve had to with Joel, Dave, Jan, and everyone else here at Pentastar. Getting involved with humans complicates things. Everything about them is messy and their mess is contagious. Unfortunately, there was no way for me to diagnose the specific sources of Pentastar’s evil without such immersion.

  My efforts to untangle the lines of deceit from the inside have led me here. After a restless night’s sleep with repeated appearances of the gray-faced, black-eyed, rogue Nephilim, I’m back in my Milburn Tower office with only one hour to go before the board meeting. My only interactions with Jan since the boiler room have been the crooked, co-conspirators’ smiles we’ve exchanged in the hallway. Fortunately for me, I’m not the CEO and have had a light workload, affording me several hours to research the board. I’ve discovered even more unscrupulous behavior from the three prime suspects as well as some shady dealings involving two others. Bribery, ethics violations, pocket-lining politics, and infidelity make the short list. Still, I have yet to find a smoking gun that connects any one of them to the Fosillix trial, much less the evil of the rogue Nephilim. The dirt I’m unearthing is entirely garden-variety human muck. What I’m looking for is the diabolical foulness that emanates from a perverse, blackened, and decaying heart.

  Interestingly, the three directors of principal interest are the only holdouts after a recent period of serious turnover on the board. It’s as if they’ve been cleaning house, getting rid of the do-gooders and conscience laden. The newer members of the board are only evil to the extent that their spinelessness allows the evil around them to flourish. Not enough records exist about any of them to indicate a strong pattern of behavior, much less one of habitual corruption. For tonight’s meeting, I’ll mainly focus on the three candidates that Jan and I discussed, but if I can’t confirm their guilt by the end of an evening of direct observation, then I may have to go back to the drawing board.

  The fleet clacking of Jan’s heels funnels into my office, each step slightly louder than the one before until she’s framed in my doorway. She pauses and asks, “May I come in?” then proceeds to my guest chair without waiting for an answer.

  “Make yourself at home, Jan,” I offer sarcastically.

  “Sorry, Ted, but my assistant is running an errand to prep for tonight’s meeting so I only have a brief window of opportunity.”

  “It’s fine. What do you want?”

  “I’ve been thinking about the board and looked back over some of our past meeting minutes and vote results to refresh my memory. I don’t know how all that sowing stuff works, but I think you should focus on two people in particular tonight,” she asserts.

  “Okay. Who are you thinking?”

  “Thomas and Stacy. Trent is a nuisance, but he’s really just a petulant asshole. Thomas and Stacy are the insatiable ones that fight me at every turn. They’ve formed a little axis of evil and have been trying to recruit some of the newer board members. It’s gaining momentum.”

  I give a nod and say, “Okay, they’ll be first.”

  “Wait, just like that? You said yesterday that you have to decide. Now you’re going to sow them? Honestly, that would be great. We can just get this over with and start the rebuilding tonight!”

  “I didn’t say I’m going to sow them first. I’m going to read them first.”

  “Read them?” she says with disappointment. “How do you do that? Do you have to touch them physically or is it something you do…psychically?”

  “There’s nothing particularly mystical about it, Jan. When I observe a person, I can recognize even the slightest nonverbal cues—the wavering output of their lungs while speaking, the interplay between their eyes and the rest of their face, the level of tension in their posture—and determine whether or not they’re lying. More than that, actually. I can often detect their emotional and psychological state as well. Human pheromones have a lot to say about a person’s body chemistry and even more to say about their guilt. Men like Joel emit a rotten odor. These are all things any human can detect and some do, at least subconsciously. But most people aren’t observant enough to pick up on the blatant cues, much less the miniscule ones. If anything, the ability is basically hyper-observance.”

  “So you’re like a lie detector?”

  “You could say that, but it’s not always that simple.”

  “Well, the only reason I asked is to find out if there’s anything more I can do to help. Like, if you needed to physically touch them I would make sure to introduce you face-to-face so you could shake hands, stuff like that.”

  Despite our fledgling alliance, I’m beginning to find Jan’s involvement meddlesome. Clearly she wants to play a larger part in this process, but I have all the information I need from her at the moment and the more I depend on her, the more I risk failing at Pentastar because of her. Jan’s involvement provides three major benefits: (1) It gets me a seat in the board meeting, (2) it provides information about the targets that I couldn’t find elsewhere, and (3) it helps lure my targets into position once I’ve selected them. The first two advantages have played out and now I need her out of the way until I’m ready for the third. If her behavior spooks my targets, this will be over before it starts and the last few miserable months will have been a waste.

  “No, nothing like that. It can help to be closer to the subject so I can see their face in greater detail and differentiate their pheromones from everyone else in the room, but I usually still need to spend some time observing them as they speak and interact before I can be certain about anything.”

  “Okay, then I’ll find an excuse to get you close to them. I’ll also be sure to address them directly during the meeting so you have opportunities to study them while speaking. Anything else?”

  “No, don’t do anything out of the ordinary. Let’s keep it simple. I was prepared to take on Pentastar without you. It’s helpful to have you on board, but I’m not used to it. I usually work alone, so let’s not overdo it with some harebrained scheme.”

  Jan recoils with an insulted expression that twists into a sarcastic, patronizing nod. “I understand. I’m not used to this either. This is the first time I’ve joined forces with a Nephilim—which I didn’t know existed until yesterday—on a covert operation to rid a company of eevill,” she bites mockingly. “Might I add that you revealed yourself to me voluntarily and invited me to be a part of your work here. Sorry if I’m not doing it right!”

  She’s right. Maybe my nerves are getting the best of me too. I longed for companionship, for an ally, and now I’ve got it. However, this isn’t exactly how I envisioned things working, and in the post-euphoric valley I have some regrets, t
hough I know it’s unfair to her. With no point of reference, any expectations I brought into this partnership would have been unrealistic and probably left unfulfilled.

  I clothe my face with an apology and lean toward Jan. “You’re right. Believe it or not, I have some nerves about tonight too and I guess I’m not handling them very well.”

  “You’re nervous?” she asks in disbelief. “That’s a little hard to believe.”

  “Well, you know I’m not lying. I put a lot of pressure on myself in everything I do. My main concern about tonight is that it’s probably my only opportunity for the next couple of months to see the entire board of directors in person. If I can’t identify the culprits, this operation could get even more drawn out and I’m already tired of it.”

  My words seem to have no impact on her nerves. In the background, the elevator dings, reminding Jan of her assistant’s imminent return. “Crap, I have to go. Hopefully that’s not Angela yet.” She stands abruptly and turns for the door then doubles back, saying, “I’ll see you in the conference room in twenty minutes. You don’t have to do this alone, Ted. Let me know if you think of more I can do. You may be an angel, but I’m Jan Lucero, CEO, and the apex predator around here. People know better than to underestimate me. I’m not useless and I’m not to be trifled with.”

  She turns and walks out without waiting for a response.

  With the day shift winding down, the next ten minutes zip by, second hand ticking as frantically as the footsteps of the thirteenth floor exodus. The board meeting is scheduled for the end of the workday, allowing the participants ample time to prepare throughout the day and ensuring no disruption to standard productivity. Conveniently, this means that outside of the conference room, the entire floor will be empty with the possible exception of the contracted cleaners, but they aren’t scheduled to come in until after the meeting would normally end.

  I rise from my chair and stroll to the doorway. The flow of bodies is now only a trickle and the stony hallway is eerily still. I take the opportunity to make my way to the conference room before the arrival of the board members. If I can inspect them one at a time as they enter the room, that will give me a head start which could mean the difference between nailing down targets and leaving with doubts.

  From the end of the hall I can see the conference room lights shining through the glass doors, reflecting off the polished tile floor. Jan is already inside setting up her presentation. She glances over her laptop monitor, her eyes stopping momentarily on my approach, which she pretends not to notice. I reach the door, give it a single knuckle-knock, and enter.

  “Jan, I thought about your offer. I want you to help me get close to Thomas and Stacy without forcing it. What do you have in mind?”

  She releases a big, pent-up smile.

  “Well, it’s not glamorous, but I was thinking that when everyone gets settled, you could work your way around the table and hand everybody their drinks. We preordered for everyone from the cafe on the second floor. With the cool weather and evening hour, they all like a little shot of caffeine to start the meeting. The seating is assigned so you’ll know who’s who. It would give you access to each member’s personal space without there being anything strange about it,” she says triumphantly.

  “That’s a good idea. I already know who’s who, though. I’ve done my homework.”

  “Of course you have, and thanks. Normally I’d have Angela do it, but it’s exactly what we need to get you up close and personal. You should be able to pick up the scent you’re looking for and then confirm it with observations from the far wall.” She motions to a row of chairs against the wall that should provide a clear sight line to everyone at the table depending on which chair I select.

  “Jan, it is a good, simple plan. Thank you,” I reaffirm.

  The ding of the elevator sings through the empty hall followed by the scrape of the doors and the clucking of several voices. Footsteps patter their way closer, bringing them around the corner and into view. Three men—two quite round—and a squatty woman shuffle and laugh at their own jokes like a group of old friends. The first four directors have arrived.

  The round men, one white and one black, are Eric Granger and Carl Packard, respectively. The slender, boyish towhead is none other than Thomas Sanford, but the squatty female is Justine Steinberg. Thomas’s sandy blonde hair flicks back as he guffaws at himself then settles into a new, stylish position. His well-tailored suit adds inches to his average height and adds shape to his lean frame. It’s not difficult to imagine him eating Gerber from a silver spoon.

  I inform Jan, who is looking down at her laptop, that they’re here.

  She says, “Okay. Go ahead and open the doors.” After a beat, she adds, “Sorry, old habits. I’m not used to not being the boss.”

  “Well, for this meeting you are the boss and I’m just a guy handing out drinks.”

  “Ah, that’s right. Well, get those damn doors open, Ted!” she playfully demands.

  I snort a laugh and shake my head as I prop open the glass doors and take a seat nearby to screen them as they enter. With any luck, the other members won’t be far behind. Sitting in a room with just these four feels like a good way to be noticed and approached for an introduction; although, at the moment they seem to be pretty enamored with each other and themselves.

  Before they even reach the conference room threshold, another elevator ding cuts through the chatter. Finally, things seem to be lining up nicely. Six more men and women in suits round the corner, except this group is far more stoic than the first. I recognize Stacy among the gaggle, but divert my attention to Thomas and the first group as they pass in front of me.

  A relatively standard blend of guilt enters my nostrils: body chemistry affected by lust, greed, anger, and regret. Such a bouquet is the scent of humanity as far as I’m concerned. It’s impossible for me to be around any group of people and not detect varying combinations and intensities of such internal torment. It is the self-inflicted human condition. A subtle, sour, fermented tinge settles heavily on the receptors of my nose, one not very common at all. I have smelled such a pheromonal stench before, but in that case it was the product of a man’s sexual deviance. Unfortunately, the board members entered the room stacked against one another, making it impossible to identify the specific perpetrator. Even if I did, such a particular iniquity may bear no connection to the problem here at Pentastar.

  The second group made up some ground on the first and is only a few steps from entering the room. Francesca Arroyo, Christopher Nguyen, Bjorn Jansen, Stacy Meyers, and Trent Jameson reach the doors with minimal ceremony. Christopher’s head dangles toward his phone the entire length of the hallway, Francesca and Stacy freeze each other out with upturned chins like high school rivals, and Bjorn and Trent share a brief exchange before appearing absorbed in their own thoughts. The sixth fellow is a very large man in both height and girth who I don’t recognize, but I would certainly remember. His suit is stretched tight around his chest and biceps and the patch of dark hair on the top of his head is slicked back into a short ponytail. He meets my gaze and holds it for at least twice the socially acceptable length until his head twists toward Jan.

  Once again, with the exception of the mystery bodybuilder, they begin to pass me with no real acknowledgment of my presence. The air shifts in swirls as they file through the door and across my space. I draw a deep breath in each person’s wake and detect more of the same, that is until the ponytail walks by.

  The scent of darkness, of genuine evil, is difficult to describe. It is the odor of decomposition, of bile, of dirt, of heat, and at the same time it is the absence of scent itself. It’s a vacuous stillness that stifles the sense of smell and burns the sinuses. Though the body reacts to the stench of evil with goose bumps and the tongue can nearly taste the rot, the nose draws an empty breath and reports nothing. Such is my body’s response to the beast’s overwhelming odor.

  A tingling ignites within my network of blood vessels and
veins, the same feeling that happens during a sowing, only I’m not causing it. The seed within my body has made its choice between fight or flight and, if it could, would pierce through my skin to lash out against this evil. Suddenly, I realize that I have a dreadful problem: the same roadmap that marked my skin in the boiler room is streaking across the backs of my hands and probably my face as well. I hang my head to the floor and slip my hands into my pockets while I frantically search for an off switch within my mind. I have to control the seed.

  Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. A peek at my wrist confirms that it’s going to take more than breathing techniques to calm this storm. The lights flash once. No, no, no, this can’t happen now. I have seconds before the people in this room start looking around and see me like this. What is it my dad taught me about self-discipline? Control of self is the only true freedom. That’s not helpful. Another flicker and I feel the muscles in my back tensing without my consent.

  A flash, this time within my mind, conjures a strange medicine with no time to spare. Wind from the front moves smoothly around my face, then along my neck from behind. I’m drifting, floating back and forth like a ship trimming fore and aft. A giggle, my youthful giggle, fills my ears. Hands push against my back, but instead of falling I fly forward and upward. I’m on a swing. I’m playing and I’m happy. Peace flows through my spirit and evaporates my gathering storm, but it also brings with it many questions—questions that will have to wait.

  I check my hands and the skin is clear, so I look up to meet Jan’s concerned glare. Her eyes ask if I have a problem, to which I respond by motioning my eyes toward ponytail. She ignores my gesture before training her sight on Angela speed-walking down the hall with a tray of Joe S’Mo’s signature blue coffee cups with names written in chalky white.