Verity Rising (Gods of Deceit Book 1)

by Phil Scott Mayes

  “You’re right, and I don’t want that for you. I’m not asking for your help so I can run away from Jan and leave you hanging. I need you to help me get free of this mess so I can regroup and formulate a new plan of attack for Jan, to gather the evidence I need to convince people of the truth. This city needs to know the truth, and I have to bring an end to Jan’s reign.”

  Tyson sighs as he considers my request—a good sign. I wasn’t sure I’d even get the chance to finish my bit, much less earn his contemplation. Before he can answer, I speak again to lighten the load.

  Pleading calmly, I say, “Tyson, all I need is information. You don’t have to stuff me in a laundry cart or walk me out in a trench coat and sunglasses. You know this building better than anyone and you have access to all of it. I’ve done my research, but I only know of the two primary points of entry and the service entrance in the side alley, and there will probably be police watching all three. Is there another way out that’s less likely to be guarded and, if so, how do I get there?”

  Tyson makes a popping sound with his lips as he processes. “There really isn’t anything else,” he says. He lowers his voice and continues, “The freight elevator is probably your only hope. I don’t know how you’ll make it free once you get outside the building, but if you can make it to the second or third floors you can catch that elevator down to the basement and out through the service entrance.”

  I ask him, “Won’t I need a key or badge to operate the freight lift?”

  “I can override the badge reader from the main security office. It lets us give access to third parties that are making deliveries or open it up in an emergency situation.”

  “I’d call this an emergency,” I say, hoping to tip the first domino.

  “No doubt, but I’m not sure what kind. I hope I’m on the right side here. You better not be screwing me over.”

  “I can’t promise that you won’t face any backlash, but I promise you that I’m telling the truth about being framed. I wish I could offer you more than that.”

  “I wish you could too,” he says sadly. Then, with determined resignation, “Either way I have to go with my gut and do what I believe is right. If you can get to the second-floor food court, there are double doors marked ‘Authorized Personnel Only’ leading to a back hallway and the freight elevator. Those double doors are never locked. Go through them and make your way to the elevator. I’ll head to the main security office to bypass the badge reader. That service entrance lets out into the side alley. I highly doubt you’ll be able to walk free from there, but with any luck, you’ll find a way.”

  Though nothing about the circumstances deserves one, a smile forces its way across my face. It feels good to have Tyson’s help, and not just because it gives me a chance to make it out of this situation. It’s more than that. After all this time spent feeling alone and longing for companionship, I failed to realize that I’ve been planting the seeds of friendship all along simply by being a kind and honest being. Tyson sensed it strongly enough to risk everything to help me, and there has to be others.

  “Tyson, thank you. You have my sincerest gratitude,” I gush as I stand from my seat. A loud honk from the chair legs scooting against the floor echoes through the dining hall, startling several people and drawing a couple of disdainful looks in my direction. With no time for apologies, I ignore them and leave the chair where it stopped, striding hurriedly toward those double doors.

  The doors are positioned out of line of sight from the elevator shaft at the center of the room. As I reach to push the door open, I can hear the stairwell door swing forcefully ajar followed by the sound of boots and loaded riggers belts. This draws the attention of the gaggle in the dining hall who swing their cameras toward the police, nearly including me in the frame as well. I slip through the doors with panic in my spine. Even if they didn’t spot me, the cops will canvas the crowd and someone will remember the loner who sat at the table while everyone else gawked and who spooked a stiff jolt from them just seconds ago. It’s time to make my move.

  I sprint down the wide hall and make a left turn as directed by the arrow pointing toward the elevator. Eighty feet ahead and to my right is the large opening of the freight lift. The door is closed, so I press the call button and pray it opens. Nothing. I look back down the hall and repeatedly mash the button as voices filter through the double doors to the food court.

  I quietly urge, “Come on…come on.”

  I notice the red status light on the elevator badge reader. Only seconds away from being arrested and I can imagine Tyson having a friendly chat with the guys in the security office, trying to act casual in his attempts to override the lift’s security controls that are an important part of lockdown protocol.

  “Let’s go, Tyson. You can do this,” I cheer to myself.

  A heavy thunk startles me. I stare intently down the hall but no one rounds the corner. As I turn back toward the firmly shut lift doors, the status light, now green, catches my eye and my ears vibrate with the quiet wheeze of the elevator’s movement. The wheezing stops, the doors open, and I dart inside. As I push the basement button, another heavy thunk rattles my nerves. This time it’s not the elevator. I hammer the button to close the doors and pray they shut in time.

  Voices, unobstructed by metal or sheetrock, echo down the hall. Through the closing lift doors, I hear a shout, “Over there!” Their heavy footsteps thump with the staccato mayhem of a carpet bombing toward the nearly closed doors but fail to reach them in time. The lift jerks to life and delivers me smoothly to the ground level.

  At this moment, my pursuers are surely racing down the stairs and making radio calls that the killer is in the freight lift. They won’t be far behind, and more will rush to reinforce the exit to the alley. Even without taking Nephilim form, I can run as fast as most Olympic sprinters and can do so for longer distances. Speed is my only chance. As the lift door opens, I bolt.

  I make short work of the fifty feet between the lift and the outside world and burst through the doors, spilling into the side alley. Skidding to a stop, I pause briefly to get my bearings. The police presence on Sixth Street is far heavier than I care to take my chances with, so I opt for a sprint to Fifth Street. I turn, lean, and start to lift my foot.

  “Hello, Ted.”

  The familiar voice stops me in my tracks.

  Then, in that still moment, a small clap rings out. My whole body ignites in scorching, seizing pain. I’m paralyzed, locked within my burning flesh and deaf to the world. My brain vibrates violently against my skull that’s still tender from Jan’s pummeling fist. No amount of effort coerces my muscles to move. A dry, frail moan emits itself from my esophagus—a formless mayday cry to the celestial bodies that hover above, watching my demise in silence. It’s only as my body settles into a numb agony that my hearing returns enough to recognize the rhythmic snapping of a taser. Like twigs, my legs buckle under my weight, and as I fall, the world fades to black.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Deep rumbling and sporadic tinking tugs me gently back to consciousness, but it’s not until my head bounces off my hard plastic pillow with a crack that I fully come around. My skull is pounding even worse than before, and when I try to reach for the back of my head, both hands move together. Through my blurry vision I can make out the moonlight’s reflection off the shiny handcuffs that bind my wrists. I sit up with a groan and a wince and as I open my eyes, my vision is clear enough to see the cage between the driver and myself.

  Sergeant Julius Drake adjusts the rearview mirror to make eye contact.

  “Morning, Sunshine,” he quips.

  “Drake. What are you doing? Where are we?”

  “You don’t recognize it? Has it been that long?”

  I look to my right, but apart from the moon-soaked treetops and shimmering silver fields, I can’t make out much. Even if I could, there appears to be little in the way of landmarks.

  “I’m not seeing very well at the moment. We’re not in the
city. I can see that much,” I reply.

  “Well, don’t worry. You’ll get your bearings soon,” he says rather ominously.

  I turn my head and lift both hands to feel the hot spot on the back. Sticky blood wets my fingers and a sharp jolt of pain zaps my scalp. I grunt, withdrawing my fingers and taking a look at them.

  “Yeah, sorry about that. You fell like a tree when I tased you back there. Hit your head pretty hard,” he snickers. “It bounced off the asphalt.”

  I give him a scornful look, wanting to yell, to lash out, but knowing that I’m depleted. Feebleness has set in, and I have never felt so close to death. Emotionally, I’m spent. Physically, I’m a shell. Spiritually, I’m severed. Now I’m being dragged out to the middle of nowhere by a cop who should’ve put me behind bars. He would be lauded for his heroism, receive commendations, and be the frontrunner for the next promotion. Instead, he’s forfeited all that to take me far from civilization as his personal prisoner. I can only imagine the horrors this Nephilim hunter has in store.

  “Why didn’t you take me to the station?” I ask, hoping for a hint of his intentions.

  “You don’t belong at the station,” he says flatly.

  It’s an answer that answers nothing; not exactly what I was fishing for. Allowing a short silence, I wait for him to continue but he doesn’t. I lean forward, closer to the metal grid that divides us.

  “Where do I belong?”

  “Not sure yet. A hole in the ground. A pile of ash. A bear’s digestive tract. The pits of hell. Maybe someplace else. That’s what we’re going to find out.”

  “We?” I ask, a question he ignores.

  Now would be the perfect time for my abilities of observation, my “sixth sense” about human honesty to be banging on all cylinders. He’s being secretive, but with hazy vision, tinny hearing, and a bruised brain, I’m incapable of verifying anything. I’m stuck. Even at full strength I wouldn’t be able to rip apart these hardened steel cuffs or kick the door open, and the windows are all caged. I can’t read him, I have no idea where we’re going, and I’m still in a lot of pain. I’m a trifling human trapped in a cage. I just hope I’m not actually being led to my death. It’s not so much that I fear death, it’s that I refuse to die until I destroy Jan.

  I look out the window again, searching for something familiar. On the right is a double-wide manufactured home, beloved by its owners. Resting on a cinder block foundation, the elderly couple has installed shutters and gutters, built an awning over a beautiful front porch, landscaped the grounds with trees and flowers (most of which are surely wilting in this cool, early-fall weather), and wrapped it all neatly within a white picket fence. I know this not because my eyesight is back to normal, but because I can make out enough to recognize our location. We’re heading to my farmhouse.

  “Drake, how do you know about the farmhouse?” I demand.

  He ignores me and flips his left turn signal. Hand over hand he turns the wheel, and hand over hand I lose my patience.

  “Drake! Answer me!” I shout, slamming my hands against the cage. My head throbs with the surge in blood pressure and my ears ache at the volume of my own voice.

  Drake looks through his eyebrows and into the mirror, then speaks. “I have some associates who have taken quite an interest in you over the last few days. Between their resources and my sleuthing, we’ve learned more about you than you know about yourself.”

  “Who?”

  “Who what?”

  “Who are your associates? What do they look like?” My fear is that Drake is somehow involved with that gray-faced, rogue Nephilim.

  “Don’t worry, Ted. If we decide not to kill you, we’ll be glad to answer all your questions.”

  That’s not exactly a comforting assurance. Drake’s in bed with some people capable of murder, and I’m currently incapable of defending myself. I’ve never been tased before, but I know that humans can be tased and be back on their feet within minutes. Their soreness the next morning might be the worst part, and yet here I am over an hour after being tased and my muscles have degenerated to the point of uselessness.

  Feeling desperate, I try to appeal to Drake’s morality, saying, “I really had you pegged as one of the good ones. I could actually sense your integrity. Handing me over to murderers is the end of all that. You’ll never be able to return to the city, much less the police force. If you take me back now, there’s still time.”

  “It’s not murder when you’re fighting a war,” he says dryly. “Soldiers kill the enemy every day without the stigma of murder. It’s killing for a cause. For the greater good and to protect innocent lives. Besides, my career was over the moment I drove you out of the city, but there’s something much bigger at stake. Something I’d be willing to die for.”

  “And what would that be?” I pry.

  “That’s enough questions outta you. We’re almost to your crappy farmhouse. Then I get to do the asking.” After a beat, he says, “Make that interrogating,” with a satisfied grin in the rearview mirror.

  Drake flicks the right turn signal and veers onto the half-mile gravel path leading up to the crappy farmhouse—my beloved home. In business with murderers and this guy still uses his turn signal on a country road at night…to turn into a driveway. In the distance, the white farmhouse to the left of the driveway looks more like a dollhouse. With our approach, the dollhouse grows and takes on more haunting features. The second-floor shutters hang crooked and the wood siding is molting a layer of paint. It’s amazing what a few months of neglect will do to an otherwise charming property, or maybe it wasn’t so charming when I left for Port Ellis.

  My dad’s old pickup truck is right where I left it, parked just in front of the detached garage that’s too full of farming equipment to be used for its intended purpose. It, too, is looking sadly forlorn, leaning wearily on one-and-a-half flat tires. The silver moonlight washes over the top of the house, but leaves the covered wraparound porch cloaked in shadow. I can only make out the front door and windows, because the first-floor lights are already on and the front door is swung wide open. I painfully twist for a look behind, but the only thing following us is a cloud of ruddy dust, no headlights.

  Drake’s squad car exhales a tired shriek as it comes to a halt. He hops eagerly from his seat and pulls my door open.

  “Let’s go,” he orders.

  I sigh and scoot across the seat as fast as I can, which isn’t very fast at all. Drake may be eager to interrogate and subsequently kill me, but I’m not looking forward to it. Besides, after being electrocuted I couldn’t move any faster if I wanted to. My slothful legs nearly buckle as I try to stand, but Drake grabs my arm and keeps me upright.

  “What if I refuse? Are you going to kill me right here?”

  “I can tase you again. Got a fresh cartridge with your name on it.”

  Dear God, I’d prefer death.

  “That won’t be necessary. Let’s get this over with,” I yield.

  As we walk across the front yard, a tall silhouette in the dining room window catches my attention. Backlit and featureless, the figure watches me closely all the way to the screen door, but when I step inside, there’s no one. The old wood plank floors creak under the weight of each step as Drake leads me to the living room. A dining room chair awaits, positioned in the center of a blue square tarp. The lamp near the window is turned on, but the room is still fairly dark. Drake drags me to the chair, pushes me down onto it (not that he needed to), and recuffs my hands through the slats on the seat back.

  “You ready for this, Ted?” asks Drake.

  I say nothing and glare at him through my eyebrows.

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Let’s get started,” he says as he leans toward me and pulls something from his pocket. The familiar snapping of arcing electricity fills the room, the same searing pain ignites within my body, and my vision goes black.

  I awaken again, this time much faster than the first. The blobby hands of the grandfather clock have sprea
d farther apart, marking the passage of maybe ten or fifteen minutes, though it felt much longer. Despite having no way to measure time after I was tased at Milburn, the drive to where I awoke takes about an hour and forty-five minutes without traffic. I force my eyes wide then squint, but my vision is still as blurry as ever. I can make out the familiar form of Drake sitting in front of me, but as I attempt to turn my head, I can’t. Someone’s large hands are holding it firmly in place.

  Drake stands and says, “Welcome back, Ted. I had to zap you again. My associate insists on anonymity for the time being and needed an opportunity to get into position without you seeing. It also helps to soften you up a bit more so you won’t try anything foolish. That time it was just my stun gun. The first time it was my department-issued Taser.”

  My mouth tastes like iron and my throat is sandy and dry. I open my lips to speak, but only a raspy squeak and jet of hot air escapes. Drake takes a couple steps my way and crouches in front of me.

  “I’ll give you one for free,” Drake offers. “Tasers work really well on you Nephilim because of those little organisms in your blood. They amplify the effect of the electricity while also taking a beating themselves. It hits your kind a lot harder than humans.”

  That confirms my suspicions. He knows I’m Nephilim. The bloody writing from my kitchen counter flashes in my mind.

  WE KNOW.

  Drake grabs something from the coffee table and holds it up to my face. “We’re going to need you to be able to speak. Drink some,” he says, pressing a straw to my lips. “Come on, Ted. You said you wanted this over with. It’s just water; drink up.”

  I take a sip, then another, and another. Only after drinking some water do I realize how dehydrated I am. I guzzle half the glass before Drake pulls the cup away and sets it back out of view. He leans back toward me, locking his blurry face in my direction.

  “Okay, now, let’s start with a control question or two. What is your name?” he asks.