I, Jequon: Part One of the Nephilim Chronicles Read online

  “What’s with all the fire and brimstone, Henrik? Tribulation this, Armageddon that. The Number of the Beast, The 7 Seals, The Rule of the Antichrist, persecution of Christians. You’re scaring people. No one wants to hear that stuff.”

  It wasn’t the first time Henry’d been lectured by a fellow evangelist. He doubted it would be the last.

  “It’s in the Scripture, Ken.”

  He had to yell to be heard over the twenty-thousand watts worth of speakers which blared praise and worship music to the packed auditorium.

  Ken, unsurprisingly, wasn’t satisfied.

  “Well, it’s all a matter of interpretation, isn’t it? You’ve got your version, but far more people believe the alternative, am I right?”

  Henrik couldn’t make eye contact, but he refused to let silence imply an endorsement. “All the more reason I need to preach the truth.”

  The theological alternative pastor Kenneth Worley was referring to had caught on like shopping for groceries at Wal-Mart. The Pre-Tribulation crowd were fellow Christians who believed the Rapture Of The Church would happen before The Great Tribulation. Wishful thinking in Henrik’s exhaustively studied opinion. Worse (but harder to prove), wishful thinking propagated by stadium-fillers like Worley.

  “Truth? That’s debatable, and frankly, beside the point, Henrik. Think about it. Who wants to tithe away their hard-earned coin to a God who’s just going to rain down plague and fire on them right along with the unsaved? You’re making God look like an asshole.”

  Henrik shrugged. “Was God being an asshole when He asked Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac as a show of faith?”

  Ken made a show of rolling his eyes.

  Though he could never share this with inerrancy of the Bible types like Ken Worley, the confidence he had in his post-Tribulation Rapture message was inspired as much by his research outside of the accepted canonical scripture as it was by anything to be found in the Bible itself. Henrik was far from alone in the belief that certain of the so-called “apocryphal” books were legitimate vessels of God’s Word. However, his reliance upon texts he alone had translated—that would prove heretical even among the most evangelical of Christians, who, so far, remained at least grudgingly open to his controversial teachings. He could ill-afford to lose their support, for these were precisely the members of the flock whom God had commanded him to reach.

  Henrik, formerly Dr. Harris Whiting to fellow eschatologists, was no stranger to condemnation. He’d already been shunned by the academic community when a critic discovered one of the papers he’d published in The Journal Of Theological Studies had quoted from an unknown source. When pressed to substantiate the quote, Henrik had been forced to admit that he had been the author of the quoted document—and more damning still—that the material in question was, in fact, the inspired Word of God, which had been revealed to him in a dream. This proved to be the end of his academic career. Once known for his insights into apocalyptic literature, as well as his linguistic genius, his reputation had been ruined. Ironic, he’d thought, how evoking a revelation from God made you a laughingstock among Bible scholars, while in certain churches, building a sermon from the sterile tripe printed in academic journals would brand you an agent of the devil. It made Henrik cynical at times, but he was in no hurry to make a similar mistake in his new calling. He’d learned the hard way that what’s left unsaid can’t be used against you.

  “Look, Henrik, reasonable people can disagree on this. But when you stand up there and tell people they’ve been lied to, that, despite what other great men of faith have written books in support of—bestsellers, mind you—they’re going to have to suffer through plagues and pestilence such as the world has never seen—and worse, it doesn’t even matter if they love Jesus, if they’re saved, or if they’ve adopted an entire village of AIDS babies from Somalia, they’re still going to be around for God’s wrath all the same. Well now, that doesn’t exactly inspire confidence in the church, does it?

  “Here I am, competing for attention against American freakin’ Idol-worship, and animated puppets who openly mock our Lord on television to legions of kids and adults alike, and I’ve got you—someone supposedly on my side—creating division among the flock. This is a time for unity, Henrik. Unity. Whether folks believe Jesus gathers up the saints before The Tribulation, or after, in a pink-polka-dotted Volkswagen—doesn’t make one iota of difference to their salvation. God doesn’t care if you’re a Pre-Trib, a Post-Trib, or a no-Trib believer, does He?”

  Henrik managed to tear his gaze from the distracting brilliance of Worley’s diamond-encrusted Rolex for the first time during their exchange. He looked him in the eye. “If God doesn’t care, then why do you?”

  Worley didn’t answer.

  The organ sounded one final triumphant chord and the singing stopped. Only the squeaks of plastic auditorium seating could be heard along with the rustle of paper as the congregation fumbled to stow their checkbooks. Timothy Simmons, the local pastor, announced Henrik to the audience, and introduced the message he’d be sharing.

  “Let’s give Pastor Whitmore a warm welcome…”

  Henrik stood up and approached the large men in suits waiting to escort him to the podium. Ushers, to be politically correct. In actuality, security guards there to deter sticky fingers when the offering plates were passed around.

  “Nice watch.”

  “Fuck you, Henrik,” Worley said this through newly capped pearly-whites. “And the four horses of the apocalypse you rode in on.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The girl sighs in the throes of a pleasurable dream, waking me from mine. I’m kneeling, cradling her head in my palm as she lies limp across my thigh. Her hair spills down my shin, the silken locks mere inches from the cold grime of the alley. I have no recollection of finding her; no memory of saving myself, of getting dressed, or of exiting the store.

  The pain from the gunshot has diminished to an almost pleasant tingling, a persistent itch near the surface of the skin. A sure sign of repair. I’m not fully recovered. For that, I’d have to drain her of all precious life, a crime forbidden by the Codes.

  I kiss her on the forehead and ease the sleeping beauty down onto a length of cardboard; tuck her in with a brand-new overcoat I must’ve lifted from inside the shop. It’s a chilly night and being a pint short won’t help her circulate warmth.

  Out of respect, I take a moment to appreciate the change I have inflicted on her life. She might have been on her way to a party. A first date. A job. None of this will matter now. Only her new craving until quenched. When she wakes, she’ll be Veingel. Not the filthy animal her blood—still moist on my lips—spared me from becoming tonight.

  The urge to watch over her, to hold her, to be with her when she wakes up, more alive and more sensual than she’s ever felt in her life.

  Instincts I have to fight off as I remember why I’m here: Lucian. Ezekiel. And all the others. A chain of murders stretching back to when our enemy still huddled together in caves and passed the time copying the white lies of their God onto papyrus scrolls; His latest mercenaries.

  I slip a copy of the Codes beneath her bra and keep moving.

  The Flood didn’t drown all of us. After the waters receded, His Chosen People also failed to wipe us out—though they tried in Canaan—slaughtering entire cities just to kill a handful of our kind who lived among the natives of the region.

  Eventually, the Israelites were distracted by other tribes returning their murderous favors, and He had to entrust the task to a subset of the Hebrews—a more devout and fanatical sect: The Sons of Jared. SOJ for short. A smallish clan able to trace their bloodline all the way back to their revered prophet, Enoch, and to their namesake, Enoch’s father—the seventh from Adam. From such progeny sprang Methuselah, and later, Noah—the latter so fair-skinned and light-haired, they feared he was one of us. Ironic—amusing even—were it not for their deadly persistence. For centuries, culling away our weakest…helping to sustain the natur
al order, some of our leaders argued. A view I will never share.

  The last time I visited Sarajevo, then a part of the former Yugoslavia, was in 1984, when the city hosted the Olympic Winter Games. In my absence, civil war and ethnic cleansing ripped apart the region, threatening to crumble its most beautiful urban jewel. She’s recovered, though not without scars. As I move deeper into The Quarter, the streets and walkways are patched increasingly with red-painted cement in the shape of flower petals—Sarajevo Roses. A solemn reminder of the mortar rounds which rained down from the surrounding mountains during the scourge of conflict.

  Men like Yuri are another type of scar upon the city. Organized crime is always the first business to prosper in the wake of socialism—an inevitable progression of the black markets that operate beneath the radar of any communist government. Here, in particular, the Russian Mafia sprouted up like poison mushrooms on the dung of oxen, still thriving today even after newly elected officials vow to crack down and restore the rule of law.

  It would be easy to assume Yuri sold me out. But aside from his own self interest, it’s just as likely he’s an ignorant pawn. There’s too much I don’t know to jump to conclusions. For instance:

  Did the SOJ intercept his call and place snipers at all of my likely points of entry into the city? Were they using Yuri to bait me with an opportunity to investigate their first target, hoping to luck-out when Jequon, the ol’ half-angel of vengeance, arrives on the scene?

  Yuri could have discovered Lucian’s body after they were long gone. They might not even know he stumbled upon their latest damning (an SOJ euphemism, not mine). Could they have made a deal with the Russian weeks before they showed up at Lucian’s apartment, buying right-of-passage from Yuri and a blind eye toward their duffels bulky with sharpened wood stakes, heavy mallets, and holy-water?

  Or maybe, just maybe, Yuri had gotten lucky and interrupted their ceremony. And luckier still for me, perhaps he’d managed to take out a few of them on my behalf. Too bad luck isn’t something I’m known for; you might say Providence isn’t on my side. Still, this latter scenario intrigues me on many levels. It must, because rushing in here like I did, taking none of the usual precautions, was stupid, stupid, dumb; reckless urgency which I’ve seen kill otherwise cunning warriors more often than any other mistake except for bedding the wrong woman.

  I do think Yuri is holding back something, but I don’t think he’s in league with the SOJ. Sure, they can pay him the same as I can. And one could argue that cash in hand is worth two full briefcases en route. But if that was the SOJ’s plan, would they really think I’d fall for it so easily? No. They’re smarter than that.

  And there’s the matter of what Yuri knows, that he shouldn’t know, that no one could have possibly convinced him of in the midst of a business deal: Lucian’s Naphil name. What he was…including his age, even though his face must’ve claimed no more than thirty years—give-or-take—depending on how many feedings he was forced to skip during periods of plague, and the youthfulness of his preferred donors.

  What’s more, Yuri knew how to reach me. Another bit of knowledge no standard issue human should have. Only Lucian could have given him this information. And it’s not something he would have written down in an address book. Lucian must’ve told Yuri of my existence, along with the only circumstance in which he dare call: his death, because the punishment for such an infraction is two-hundred years in a lightless pit. The fact Lucian would take such a risk is what earns Yuri a thread of credibility, however thin.

  After all, here is a man who seems to know who I am, what I am, and the unique role I serve in protecting my people. And if he knows all that, then he also knows—beyond even a shred of doubt—I am not to be fucked with. Not ever. Which can only mean Yuri has something else for me. Something even more valuable than Lucian’s body. Something too sensitive to discuss over an unsecured line.

  I rub the quickly fading circle of scar tissue embossed on my neck. It won’t even be noticeable by the time I meet the Russian.

  Thousands of the city’s youth are out, many of them twenty-something girls with glitter adorning their necks in place of the lace and lockets of another era. The war decimated their available dating pool, and it shows in their hungry eyes and revealing attire. One rather seductive waif I pass sways into me as if the streets were much more crowded than they actually are; testing me with a hardened nipple, inviting me with the muscular curve of her thighs. She is not the only one. Not so long ago, nights like these were heaven.

  A full block from where Yuri waits trance music greets me like the chanting of Gregorian monks gone electronica. I hug the walls and seek the cover of awnings as I move in. If this is another trap, I’m close enough to show up on the SOJ’s radar.

  Ahead, I see the foil-covered windows of what must be Lucian’s apartment. It sits on the second floor of a brown brick building. Below it, on street level, an all-night café advertising espresso and blintzes. And in the basement turned speaker-box, some kind of dance club I suspect Yuri’s in charge of. Not what I would call an unusual location for a 3rd Generation’s bachelor pad. Convenient as hell, like an ATM inside of a strip club.

  I slip into the last remaining alley before the rendezvous and scan the final fifty yards of the approach. The air here is an interesting mix of raw dough, mixed drinks, and concrete. I’m looking for church towers, unlit windows with a view of the street. Anywhere more snipers could hide. Nothing stands out, which leaves three possibilities. A) the SOJ put all their eggs in one basket at the train station; B) they don’t have the manpower in place to take another potshot from the perimeter; or C) I’m wrong about Yuri, and they plan to ambush me inside Lucian’s apartment.

  I saunter up to the door adjacent the café and walk in like I rent the place. A poorly lit stairwell leads up to the second floor. I take it, hunching forward to avoid the angled ceiling frosted with cobwebs. The wooden treads groan like banshees with every step. Fortunately, the music from the basement is even louder inside the building and it drowns out the sound of my ascent. At the top of the steps there’s a cramped landing bracketed by two numbered doors, Lucian’s on the left, a neighbor’s on the right. Still no sign of an ambush. I’m ready if there is. Close-quarters combat is my world.

  I get down on one knee three feet in front of the entrance to his apartment and listen. My hearing is an order of magnitude more sensitive than a full-on human’s, but any breaths or heartbeats I might otherwise detect are overpowered by the revelry in the club below.

  I crouch down even lower. If someone shoots through the door, they’ll aim for my chest.

  “Yuri, it’s Jequon.”

  I don’t want to surprise him.

  “Do you have the money?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Come in. Slowly. Both hands on briefcase.”

  He knows what I’m carrying so he must have me on camera. Not ideal. Somehow, I missed it.

  “That’s not the way it works. I’m paying you. You get the door.”

  I hear the unmistakable schlack-klack of a pump-action shotgun as he chambers a round. A sound meant to intimidate, but tactically, quite foolish. One, I’m not intimidated. Two—until now—Yuri was armed with no more than a heavy club.

  “Don’t worry. According to Lucian you’d kill me before I could even raise the barrel to aim. The gun is my escort back downstairs. Hand me the money as I pass. You’ll want to spend some time alone with your fallen comrade, yes?”

  “You’re not leaving, Yuri. I have questions.”

  “As you say. I not want to argue.”

  The deadbolt clunks free of the jam. The door creaks inward, opening about six inches as a plume of clove-scented cigarette smoke and vodka fumes billows out into the hall. The vice-laden vapors mask, but do not entirely cloak, the warm coppery scent of blood. A lot of blood.

  Yuri uses the tip of the 12-gauge to lever the door the rest of the way open while he remains obscured in the darkness.

  “I
’ll be in my club. Come ask your questions when you are finished.”

  He staggers through the doorway without making eye contact. He is drunk.

  I rise to my feet, holding the briefcase. He reaches for it. I hand it to him. A deal’s a deal.

  “Sit tight.”

  I grip him hard on the shoulder. Not enough to hurt, but enough to let him know I’m not asking.

  “First I make sure I’m getting my money’s worth.”

  Yuri nods, then drops the briefcase as if he’s too tired to hold it.

  I look suggestively at the shotgun.

  “Safety on?”

  Yuri nods again. I confirm—visually—that the weapon is, indeed, on safety.

  “Good. Now pick up the briefcase and hold it.”

  He does.

  “Now turn around and face the neighbor’s door.”

  I wait for him to turn.

  “If I hear your feet move even a millimeter, I will kill you. If you set down the briefcase, I will kill you. If I hear you click off the safety, I will kill you. Understood?”

  “Yes.”

  I’m not quite as fast as Lucian led him to believe, but I am quick enough to disarm him before he could click off the safety, drop the briefcase, turn, and raise the barrel to fire off a shot.

  I step inside and swing the door open all the way behind me. Flip on the light. It’s not a pretty scene. The apartment is one room plus a bathroom, sparsely furnished with a chair, a dresser, and an unmade bed that looks like it doubled as an autopsy slab.

  Lucian hangs from the far wall like a dying Christ; naked, suspended by ash stakes penetrating his crossed ankles, wrists, and chest. Face mangled. Eyes gouged out. Throat meat-cleavered clean-through to the vertebrae. Any of these wounds would have been fatal—not just the symbolic, stake-through-the-heart cliché that’s become the SOJ’s favorite method of keeping one of my kind dead.