Verity Rising (Gods of Deceit Book 1)

by Phil Scott Mayes

  “Were you smelling me in my sleep?”

  “Only when I had to.”

  I ignore him and stand up slowly from the bed, savoring the revitalized strength of my legs. It takes only one and a half of my large steps to cross the small room to the window where I peer out at the settlement. From here, it looks like a quaint, inviting, rural town; albeit one that was unearthed after fifty years in a time capsule. Hand-painted signs, now scaly and flaking, are mounted above mom-and-pop storefronts, all of which look uninhabited. I guess a secret Nephilim settlement doesn’t make for much of a commerce center. A two-lane county road splits the village down the middle, and all of the stores, restaurants, bars, and churches cling to it tightly like grapes to the vine. The houses line up neatly behind them, and it’s not hard to tell that the village’s growth radiated from the county road outward. Those who showed up late to the game took jobs working at the businesses already established by others and built their homes, their shacks, on the nearest unclaimed piece of land. For that reason, the lots seem to get gradually smaller the farther they are from city center.

  The modest home in which I’ve landed is fifty yards from the one-size-fits-all school building. Ancient playground equipment fights a losing battle against rust at every junction and rivet, but the half dozen or so kids don’t seem to mind. In fact, they seem entirely carefree as they spin, slide, swing, and sprint around their personal Eden in full Nephilim form. Though likely just elementary school age, each of them is nearly the size of an average adult human and notably taller than I was at their age. This is far more than the bare-bones, military-style camp I expected. They’re making a life in this haven and living in community.

  Even if I had been raised around other Nephilim, it’s hard to imagine my parents allowing me to participate in schoolyard play. My father taught me a lot and we shared a laugh or two, but it was always in the course of preparing me for my future mission. To live in the moment was to waste my most precious resource, one I could never replenish: time. I can practically hear him using those kids as an object lesson: “Play, entertainment, and pleasure are the trifecta of selfish indulgence. It makes you soft, erodes your focus, and steals time that you could have spent sharpening useful skills.”

  Even now, so many years after my father’s lectures, their frivolous play still strikes me as a disservice to themselves. As future soldiers born into a divine war, a pleasant childhood will only serve to harshen the blows of their inevitable reality. It’s better for them to have never known lightheartedness than to have such a carefree upbringing, only to have it stripped away.

  The old saying comes to mind that it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. The phrase has something to say about love, but makes no claims about loss. I’ve never been in love. In fact, the only love I can remember experiencing was my parents’ rigid, utilitarian love, expressed through their care for my physical health and fastidious sculpting of my worldview. Put another way, they made sure I didn’t die and that I knew my place in the world. However, one thing I do know plenty about is loss. Having barely survived the soul-punishing loss of both my parents and their malnourished love, I can’t imagine that it would ever be better to have found true love and lost it than to have never found it at all. No, these children shouldn’t play. They shouldn’t fall in love with the lie of a warm, kind world.

  During a momentary break in their gleeful squeals, I detect the low, steady drone of multiple engines—generators if I had to guess. Drake’s voice splashes over their droning.

  “The town’s called Carver.”

  “I’ve never heard of it,” I reply, looking at him over my shoulder then turning back to the window.

  “Very few people have. It’s been forty-seven years since it was abandoned. The town lived and died on agriculture and it promised to be a mecca of rich soil, rich crops, and richer farmers. People flocked in droves when they heard about the wide-open, cheap, unsold plots of land with nutrient-rich topsoil. At first, it was everything they hoped it would be, and record crop yields came easily, which only summoned more would-be farmers. Unfortunately, the aquifer couldn’t keep up with the town’s rapid growth and suddenly went dry. Carver’s rural population migrated, taking with it the business owners’ customer base. Eventually, the aquifer replenished but not soon enough. No one’s coming back.”

  “What do they do if someone wanders through and gets curious?” I ask.

  “Well, the county road gets no traffic because it goes nowhere—it’s basically a glorified driveway to Carver—but it has happened before. The biggest problem has been curious teenagers exploring the spooky ghost town rumors. I don’t live here, but when I met Melody and learned about the Nephilim, I did some investigating into Carver’s history. I’m basically on call twenty-four/seven to deal with trespassers or anything else a pocket-cop can handle. It’s a long drive, but it’s the least I can do for the cause.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Pocket-cop, huh?”

  “Normally it would be an insult, but I’m proud to be duty-bound to Melody and the alliance, and I’m not even on the payroll,” he says piously before adding, “There is no payroll. Before Melody, I spent all my years on the force fighting crime but was oblivious to its source. Kinda like how you were before Jan. Now that you know who’s truly to blame for the state of the world, could you ever go back to sowing one person at a time?”

  “Humans have to shoulder their share of the blame, Drake.” I spin around and point a finger in his direction. “You have the freedom of choice. The ramifications may be unjust, but you can still choose to do the right thing,” I counter.

  “With ramifications as harsh as death, it’s not that simple, Ted,” he says, scowling. “When authority figures manipulate the truth and build a false narrative that we all live by and are powerless to refute, all of our decisions are tainted. At that point, our freedom is meaningless. Well, guess who’s using their authority to manipulate others’ reality these days. Your kind! I’m not saying humans have no responsibility for the way things are, but let’s bring the Nephilim meddling to an end before you judge humanity too harshly. If it weren’t for the goodness of Melody and the alliance, I’d hate every last one of your kind.”

  It pains me to admit it, but he makes a valid point. If Jan could mislead even me into taking a different course of action and thinking it was the product of my own free will, then what chance does an ordinary human have? That being said, the number of children playing outside this window surpasses the total number of Nephilim I have met in my life, not including my parents. Such a low Nephilim-to-human ratio would suggest that most humans forge their personal brand of evil with no Nephilim meddling at all.

  “You make an interesting point but, for now, I still disagree,” I respond.

  Drake rolls his eyes and says, “Of course you do. If I had to guess, that’ll change after you meet with Reb. Anyway, you need to take a shower because, damn, you stink, and I’m supposed to get you to Reb when you’re presentable.” He looks down at a pile of clothes lying on the upholstered seat of a cedar chest that’s nestled up to the foot of the bed and says, “Put these on when you’re done. They’re clean and should fit well. I’ll be waiting at the dining room table. Bathroom’s down the hall and to the right.”

  He leaves the doorway and ten seconds later is fumbling with the tangled legs of the wood dining chair. They thump against the floor and clack against the other chairs until they eventually break free. I can hear his flustered mumbling and snicker to myself.

  Bested by a chair.

  “I can hear you laughing. Let’s go! Chop, chop,” he bellows.

  I retrieve the stack of clothes and smile crookedly as I stroll past Drake and down the short hall to the bathroom. The windowless, wood-paneled room is as outdated and dark as they come. Feeble light emanates from the top of the boxy medicine cabinet but is thirstily absorbed by the walnut walls faster than the old bulb can burn. I drop the clothes on the floor and loo
k at my bruised reflection in the cabinet’s sliding mirror doors. With the seam of the mirror panels running down the middle of my face, it’s divided into two parts, the left one slightly distorted. It’s a fitting visual, a glimpse beneath my flesh.

  Like royalty in a deck of playing cards, I’ve spent my whole life living as if I’m one-dimensional, as if there’s only one side of my face, only one side of me. I’ve lived in fear of what I would become if I acknowledged that I’m not only one thing, that I’m not only angel but am also equally human. I can’t help but wonder, now, what it would be like to have lived all my years with both halves of my being working in unity. How whole would I be if my dueling natures merged to complete one another instead of my angelic nature lording over my human nature and my human nature lashing out against the oppression of its angelic counterpart?

  I unpack the new toothbrush that’s lying on the small vanity and squeeze a green-striped ribbon of toothpaste from the little tube. Scrubbing my teeth in small, concentric circles, I can see no difference when I look at them in the mirror, but I can feel the day’s grime wash away. I know it will return and I’ll have to brush them again, but if I stop brushing altogether, they will inevitably rot. My fight against the deceit and manipulation of mankind is much the same. Whatever progress I make in a given day will be undone by the next, but to quit the fight altogether is to abandon creation to decay that will nibble its bonds to dust.

  As the showerhead pelts my skin with the aquafer’s icy beads, my body stiffens tightly, squeezing the air from my lungs. I wish my body had reacted this way at the thought of working with Jan, but none of my alarms were triggered. Her words were exactly what I needed to hear, which is true of most lies, but I don’t understand how she could knowingly lie and still convince herself and me that it was truth. My feelings may have interfered more with my judgment than I realized, but I can’t shake the feeling that there was something more at work. Perhaps, like Mel’s interrogation technique, Jan used some Nephilim ability to conceal her deceit. That would be a dangerous weapon, especially against humanity. They wouldn’t stand a chance.

  The shower’s water never warms, but I manage to brave enough breathtaking blasts to get clean. After I dress, Drake and I step out into the open air. Hot sun bakes my face while a chill creeps up my shaded back. We walk in silence, the dry, brittle grass crunching with every step. The denim overalls, long underwear, and brown work boots do indeed fit well because they’re mine, plucked from my closet back at the farmhouse some time before the interrogation. I can’t remember the last time I wore them, but I’d be ill-prepared to own a farm without such a getup on standby. He keeps looking over at me with a sheepish grin, obviously enjoying the sight of me dressed like a farmer.

  “Don’t worry, we brought you a couple sets of clothes. I just had to see this,” he says with a snicker, gesturing top-to-bottom in my direction.

  I ignore the ribbing, instead asking, “Where’s Mel?”

  “How would I know? She’s around here somewhere,” he answers.

  “You two seem pretty close. I thought maybe there was something there and I figured you’d know, that’s all.”

  Drake’s mouth stretches into a sly grin. “Well, I don’t know where she is at every second of the day. Even though we are a couple, she’s still her own person.”

  He’s lying. Thirty-six hours of sleep has my abilities sharper than ever, and that lie was written across his forehead. “You must’ve forgotten who you’re talking to. That was one of the most obvious lies I’ve ever seen.”

  Drake lets out an impish laugh and says, “You’re right, we’re not a thing. Just testing you. She’s a dream to look at, but Mel’s not interested in romance. She’s pretty focused on the mission. If I were you, I wouldn’t bother. You’ll just end up feeling like a rejected middle schooler.”

  “Well, you’re not me and we’re not even the same species. I don’t want, or need, your advice, Drake,” I snap.

  “How is it possible that you’re still this proud after the ass whipping of the last couple days?”

  Through gritted teeth I mutter, “Just stop talking and take me wherever it is we’re going.”

  “Gladly,” he says with frustrated resignation. Then, pointing to the right, he announces, “It’s right here anyway.”

  We stop in the shadow of a church steeple. The charming wood building, smaller than a regulation basketball court, sits behind the stores and only a stone’s throw from the main road. Like the rest of the town, decades of neglect have taken their toll, leaving patches of roof exposed, most of the beige paint worn off, and quite a few of the stained-glass windows broken. Mischievous teens are likely to blame for the windows, but time and nature account for the rest.

  “This is your stop, Ted-tastic. Reb is inside waiting,” says Drake.

  “And who exactly is Reb?”

  “He’s their leader. The leader of the alliance—the leader of this cell, at least.”

  “There are other alliance cells?” I ask excitedly.

  Impatiently, Drake replies, “You’re asking the wrong guy. Just go in there and talk to Reb. He’s got your answers.”

  I trot up the fissured concrete stairs, pull the heavy door ajar, and step slowly onto the dry rotting floorboards of the foyer. The wood flexes under my weight with a delicate crackle, but it holds. Each step brings more confidence in the floor’s integrity, and I begin to stride naturally toward the man seated in the front pew of the sanctuary. The sun enters in bright white beams through the broken windows along each side wall and casts colorful holograms where it passes through the intact stained glass. If not for the plant life growing through the floor and the vacant seats, I’d be vividly reliving the memory of the cult leader’s sowing.

  When I reach the front of the sanctuary, I sit on the first pew next to the still, quiet man. He has a peaceful presence as he remains motionless, locked in a meditative gaze toward the slightly crooked cross that’s mounted above the podium. Without breaking his motionless stare, he greets me.

  “Hello, Theodonis. My name is Rebarro, but I go by Reb. It’s good to see you again.”

  Again?

  His voice is tender, almost fragile, and yet it still resonates with authority. I’ve yet to even make eye contact with him or see the other side of his face and I already like him. He’s smaller than I expected, but that hasn’t impacted his immediate command of the room.

  “Hello, Reb, it’s nice to meet you. I wish I could say that I’ve heard a lot about you, but I’ve actually heard next to nothing about you or this place, which makes it even stranger that you said ‘again.’”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to remember me, Ted. The last time I saw you, you were just a toddler. In fairness, I wouldn’t have recognized you if I didn’t already know who you are from Melodia and Sergeant Drake, and our research.”

  Melodia?

  The Nephilim tradition of choosing odd, Greek-sounding names has somehow persisted into the modern era. It wasn’t always that way. Before the proliferation of Greek mythology, Nephilim followed no naming conventions. Goliath is a well-known example. He was one of us but was named shortly before the tradition started. Eventually, Greek mythology went mainstream and Nephilim parents saw their sons and daughters as the real-life demigods of those heroic tales, stronger and braver than men. They chose mighty Greek names with the fantasy of seeing their children’s likeness carved into marble effigies and celebrated for their heroism. What started as a trend lasted long enough to become tradition, and now it would feel odd to settle for modern human names. In an effort to blend in easier, we usually ditch our full given names and go by common nicknames, but, for some inexplicable reason, we eventually end up naming our own offspring something unique and Greek-like.

  Rebarro, more Hispanic than Greek, finally turns to face me, unveiling a prominent scar on his right cheekbone. White tissue in the shape of a mangled fishhook wraps around his right eye and stands out against his olive skin tone. It’s not
difficult to look at, but it does make me cringe to imagine the blow he received in order to earn such a scar.

  His age is difficult to guess, as is typical of Nephilim. Once we reach adulthood, we age very little for many decades. It isn’t until our final, waning years that the common signs of aging set in, but when they do, they hit hard. He could be forty; he could be eighty-five. The only way to know is to ask, but it’s not relevant. I have more important questions that need answering.

  “How did you see me as a toddler?”

  He looks at me with disarming, compassionate eyes as he responds. “Before we start with the question and answer session—to be clear, that’s what this is—I need you to prepare yourself. We want you to join our cause, but it’s been brought to my attention that you hold some unconventional views about your purpose, your history, and the broader nature of the Nephilim. This is an opportunity for us to set the record straight and make sure you’re making a truthfully informed decision. This may be unpleasant for you.”

  “Unconventional? I’m not worried about whether or not my views are conventional; I’m dedicated to the truth even if it’s unpopular. My views, my beliefs, are true. My parents raised me in truth and it’s all I’ve ever known.”

  Reb sighs heavily before he says with reluctant gravitas, “That’s as good a place as any to start. Your parents, Dan and Val, weren’t who you thought they were. The reason I knew you as a toddler is because we picked you up…when you were an orphan. You were living at the Burkwood Orphanage south of Port Ellis, and we caught wind through a police contact of an incident report involving a young boy whose veins glowed red during a tantrum. We knew nothing about your biological parents, but it was obvious you were Nephilim at some level. So we—Dan, Val, some other alliance members, and I—took you in. As Dan and Val’s love for each other grew, they wanted to have a family but were unable to conceive. They asked for our blessing to adopt you as their own and we granted it.”