I, Jequon: Part One of the Nephilim Chronicles Page 6

  It’s also unlikely Lucian would’ve given the Russian both of our numbers. The fact he shared my name and number with Yuri makes a modicum of sense. I am, after all, The Protector. The one my people call when things go terribly wrong. They damn sure don’t call Artemis. And I don’t think Yuri did, either. Which puts me right back where I started.

  Now, a different angle occurs to me. Putting aside Artemis for the moment, what if Yuri was working with, or for, the SOJ? And what if everything that happened after he first made Lucian’s acquaintance had been part of an elaborate and well-orchestrated trap? This, at least, explains the train station shooters and the two hit-men. What it doesn’t explain, however, even putting aside Artemis’s unexpected visit, is the new, Angelic-lettered brand they used on Lucian.

  Which can only mean… Shit. It wasn’t Yuri. Artemis was in league with the SOJ.

  He might not have done the deed himself, but he was no less responsible. Despite Yuri’s effort to keep everything on the down-low, Artemis must’ve caught wind of Lucian’s indiscretions and traveled to Sarajevo to investigate, probably weeks or even months ago. Then, seeing a way to leverage the situation for his own gain, he hatched a plan to have the SOJ do his dirty work.

  That would explain how he arrived at the scene so quickly. He was already in Sarajevo. And it also accounts for the altered brand. Rather than carelessness, as I originally assumed, Artemis must’ve provided the SOJ with the Naphil translation of the Aramaic-spelled damned—for the same reason I first suspected he was Lucian’s killer, because it would serve as evidence that a fellow Naphil was guilty of the crime. Evidence he could present to the Council at my trial.

  But why? Murderous, power-hungry asshole that he is, I can’t see anything substantial Artemis would gain from teaming up with our sworn enemy. We are a wealthy, vibrant people. We have little interest in the affairs of humans, save for maintaining the delicate ecological balance in our respective numbers crucial to survival. The only thing the SOJ have to offer us is slaughter.

  And yet, I have to admit, if Artemis was betraying us that deeply and if his jealousy-inspired hatred of me was so strong he willingly engaged in espionage, then it might explain the enemy’s recent efficaciousness. And since SOJ success reflects poorly on my role as Protector, a position Artemis craved for himself, it’s a theory that provides him a solid motive. In fact, if Artemis could have convinced the Council to remove me from my post, and to appoint him as my replacement, he might then have used his relationship with the SOJ against them, and thus been quite effective at sabotaging their campaigns. A pretty damn devious strategy on his part, and one that might have worked.

  Then again, I might be giving Artemis too much credit. Maybe the SOJ caught Artemis unaware, and rather than face up to his waiting hellfire like a man, he traded two of his own so he could keep breathing. First he sells out Lucian, and then he sweetens the deal with a promise to deliver their most sought-after 1st-Gen. Me. Either way, I need to fly back to New York and warn the Council of his betrayal.

  Moon-cast shadows envelop the alley where I left the girl, but she’s already gone. Only the overcoat I covered her with remains, still warm with her trapped heat. Her absence disappoints me. Saddens me. I stare up at the universe of stars, knowing the God who despises my kind grins back down at my foolishness.

  Thou see what Azazel hath done, who hath taught all unrighteousness on earth and revealed the eternal secrets which were preserved in heaven, which men were striving to learn: And Semyaza, to whom Thou hast given authority to bear rule over his associates. And they have gone to the daughters of men upon the earth, and have slept with the women, and have defiled themselves, and revealed to them all kinds of sins. And the women have borne giants, and the whole earth has thereby been filled with blood and unrighteousness... Then said the Most High, the Holy and Great One spoke, and sent Uriel to the son of Lamech, and said to him: 'Go to Noah and tell him in my name "Hide thyself!" and reveal to him the end that is approaching: that the whole earth will be destroyed, and a deluge is about to come upon the whole earth, and will destroy all that is on it. —The Book of Enoch 9:9, 10:1-3

  CHAPTER TEN

  It was 9:30 in the morning and warm for SoCal this late in October; the marine layer had begun to burn off early. Mercy steered her Audi R8 Spyder into the public lot next to the Ocean Beach lifeguard tower. The waves were cresting way over head height. Had it been less windy, the ample parking would have already been snatched up by surfers. She found a space visible from the Newbreak Cafe across the street and then silenced the sensual purr of the convertible’s ten cylinder engine.

  As the gull flies, Ocean Beach (OB to locals) was closer to Cynthia’s apartment in Pacific Beach than it was to Mercy’s condo in Downtown. But Mercy didn’t have Mission Bay and the San Diego River to skirt like Cynthia did driving in from the north. Plus OB was less crowded than its more touristy neighbor on the other side of the jetty. An ideal meet-up for their on-again, off-again ritual of coffee, omelets, and gossip. Cynthia’d gotten back only yesterday from a two week assignment in Sarajevo, and Mercy looked forward to catching up with her.

  They’d agreed on 9:45. Mercy was early. She texted her perpetually late friend to look for her on the seawall, in the unlikely event she also arrived early and couldn’t find Mercy inside the cafe.

  When she first met Cynthia, years ago in the Baja desert, the younger girl didn’t know how to laugh. Laughter was a sound girls who ended up at the monastery had forgotten how to make long before the Brotherhood selected them. With histories of abuse and neglect, of being shuffled from foster-home-to-foster-home and from detention-center-to-detention-center, their childhoods snuffed out a laundry list of emotions that preceded laughter. Trust. A sense of stability. Hope. Faith. It took all of them time to relearn these skills, Mercy included, but little Cynthia struggled longer than most.

  Six months passed before she’d even allow a hug from her assigned big sister. Six more until Mercy didn’t have to hustle them back to the dormitory after each embrace for a fresh change of clothes. The poor girl would tremble uncontrollably in Mercy’s lap, clinging to her like a baby marmoset to its mother—like she’d fall and die if she let go—only to lose control of her bladder when she finally relaxed enough to stop the shaking. Mercy never let this discourage her, though. She knew all too well the type of trauma which caused the incontinence, and she recognized it for what it was now. A sign of progress. A sign of healing. She kept on hugging.

  Eventually, little Cynthia did learn to laugh again. She even became the go-to comedian among the Angel Bait, a slang term she coined to refer to herself and the other Lures-in-training, replacing Mercy’s own Lure-litas as the girls’ preferred moniker. Little by little, with constant reassurance from Mercy, Cynthia learned that some people could be trusted, that the home you were in today would be your home tomorrow; and that not all men were demons incarnate sent to Earth to sexually torment young girls. Little Cynthia learned there were exceptions, like the priests who rescued them, trained them, and taught them faith in the loving God they’d all been chosen to serve.

  Since Mercy was four years older than Cynthia, it was only natural the younger girl looked up to her. Skills that Cynthia had only just begun to acquire, Mercy had long since mastered.

  More than any other factor, it was Mercy’s dedication to her protege that bonded them so tightly. She made sure that Cynthia wasn’t merely a good Lure, but a great one. She practiced one-on-one with her little sis outside of the normal lessons. She pushed her to achieve the same levels of excellence in hand-to-hand combat, in spy craft, and in cultural sophistication that she displayed.

  It was true Mercy saw something of herself in her younger counterpart, but she also saw something more. At times she even questioned the priest’s pronouncements concerning her own destiny. Perhaps they’d named the wrong girl? Perhaps it wasn’t Mercy, but Cynthia who would one day become the Lure like no other. The Lure who helps slay The Last.

>   The surf collapsed into a mushy white froth as the tide began to turn, canceling out the momentum of approaching breakers. Enough of a lull to nudge Mercy out of her nostalgia. She checked her watch. 9:57 A.M. Punctuality was one trait she should have worked harder at imparting to Cynthia back at the monastery. Although accustomed to it, Cynthia’s tardiness annoyed her. More so than usual today, because she was hungry and she could smell the omelet bar from across the street. Her muscles might not have been that sore, but they still craved fuel and protein.

  She left the seawall and typed another text as she walked over to Newbreak. She told Cynthia she’d save her a seat in the cafe, but that she wouldn’t wait on her to start eating. She sat at one of the bar height stools in the small open-air alcove with views of her Audi and the ocean behind it. The waitress took her order and returned in a few minutes with a steaming mound of melted cheese, diced onion, and scrambled egg deliciousness. Mercy didn’t rush the meal, savoring every bite. Still no word from Cynthia.

  A little odd. It wasn’t disrespect that caused Cynthia to be late so often, but an honest-to-goodness flaw in her personality. She was aware of it, and she normally compensated by texting ahead her apologies along with an updated ETA to whomever was waiting on her. Not this time.

  Mercy knew she should cut her some slack. It was probably just jet-lag after returning from Europe. And yet, she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something was wrong with her friend.

  On the one hand, Mercy felt silly for fretting over a fellow Lure. Especially Hardcore Cynthia Hernandez. She could take care of herself and a bar filled with bikers if the need arose. On the other hand, Cynthia had recently been assigned to the creepiest looking guy since Steve Buscemi in Fargo. Some second-rate local minister by the name of Henrik Whitmore. Obviously not a naphil, which, while not unheard of, was considered a pretty shit job for a looker like Cynthia. And this was on top of her longstanding assignment in Sarajevo. She’d texted Mercy last night from the airport to let her know she’d landed safe and to confirm their breakfast date for the next morning. Now Mercy wondered if she hadn’t stopped by Whitmore’s afterward? Could he be the reason she was late? Mercy couldn’t picture the two of them getting drunk together; most ministers didn’t drink to excess, and Cynthia, like all Lures, was plenty adept at staying sober when on the job. A hangover seemed unlikely. Nor would she have stayed the night at his place. Lucky for Cynthia, he wasn’t interested in intercourse. It was too sinful an act for a servant of the Lord to perform outside of wedlock. At least that’s what Cynthia had confided.

  She ordered another side of bacon and another mug of coffee. She finished both. Cynthia wasn’t going to show up. That much was clear. She paid the check in cash and left her usual generous tip. Then she went back to her Audi and texted Cynthia again. This time her frustration came through:

  REPLY NOW! Even if you have to pull over.

  Mercy kept the Messages app open on her iPhone, and periodically tapped the screen to prevent it from shutting off. She wanted to see the instant Cynthia’s reply came through in the little blue speech bubble. One minute passed. Then two. No response. A flock of seagulls spooked into flight by a tourist kid zigzagged overhead. Mercy put the top up to spare her leather interior from the bird’s foul, fishy droppings.

  Four more minutes passed. Five. Fuck it, I’m calling her. She depressed the home button on her iPhone until she heard the tone.

  “Siri, call Cynthia’s mobile phone.”

  Siri complied. Cynthia didn’t answer.

  Instead, her voicemail picked up. Mercy almost ended the call, but thought better of it. Because if this turned out to be a hellacious case of jet lag, she’d feel like a total bitch if she didn’t at least give her friend a heads-up that she was coming over.

  “It’s me. I’m worried about you. We were supposed to meet at Newbreak this morning, and you’re not replying to my texts. I’m coming over to check on you. If you’re, uh, occupied, then you’d better text me back—otherwise I might join in—you know how long I’ve been waiting.”

  Mercy hung up and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. She wrung her hands around the steering wheel, kneading the thin layer of padding beneath the lambskin ridges that gave the mechanism its grip. She’d thrown in the bit about joining in to soften the frustration in her voice, but regretted how envious it made her sound. Cynthia would know the quip was far more literal than Mercy had intended. Which raised another possibility she didn’t really want to consider:

  What if Cynthia had stood her up deliberately?

  Was Cynthia growing tired of her? Sick of being the only one with salacious tales to tell? Uncomfortable sharing the down-’n-dirty details of her conquests with a confidant who could only experience her dangerous deeds vicariously?

  No. They were too close. If Cynthia actually felt that way, she cared enough about Mercy to tell her so to her face. Ducking difficult conversations wasn’t her style. Plus, they both knew that Mercy’s so-far-sedate adulthood was predicated on a sacred purpose she’d yet to fulfill. A purpose any Lure would be honored to carry out, but one that only a woman like Mercy actually could.

  And suddenly she knew. Something was wrong with Cynthia. Call it intuition, or a side-effect of their sisterly bond, but she knew. It was time to pay her a visit.

  Just as she slid the the key into the ignition, her phone played Ke$ha’s Tik Tok, the ringtone she’d assigned Cynthia with conscious, delightful irony. Mercy snatched the phone from the passenger seat.

  “Cynthia? Where the fuck are you?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Remove your clothes,” said the Bostonian. “Not the blindfold.” High wattage speakers intensified the authoritative tone of the command.

  Before Henrik Whitmore could protest, other voices chanted in unison, ”For The Lord our God exposes all sin; before Him we tremble as naked babes. Amen.”

  His every numbered hair stood on end like a divining rod. He recognized God’s Word when he heard it. Yet, he knew the verse was not, strictly speaking, biblical. Nor was it contained within the Apocrypha or even the Kabala. So from where? Which anointed text? Whom had God used as His mouthpiece? What other holy wisdom did The Sons of Jared have for his hungry mind to crack?

  The prospect of knowing pushed him beyond his fear.

  Henrik fumbled out of his clothes the best he could. It was difficult with the blindfold, which was actually a silken hood secured around his neck with duct tape. He held his breath, struggling for balance. He fought the urge to reach out for some kind of support, unsure of where he stood. His sock-covered feet wanted to shoot out from underneath him on the polished hardwood floor. He couldn’t tell if they’d placed him in a pit, or teetering on a pedestal. With some effort, he finally managed to wriggle free of his shirt and trousers. He left on his boxer shorts because they hadn’t yet specified.

  ”For The Lord our God exposes all sin; before Him we tremble as naked babes. Amen.”

  Their chorus echoed in the large room, giving him the impression he was surrounded. He could only estimate their number: Twenty. Thirty at most.

  “Don’t be difficult, Henrik.” The Englishmen this time.

  Henrik didn’t like to be naked in front of other men. He refused to relieve himself in non-partitioned urinals, and he’d gone through elaborate measures his whole life to avoid scrutiny in locker rooms and doctors offices.

  He shed his boxers and focused his mind on their holy texts, on the access they’d agreed to grant him once he stood among their ranks. No matter what, he mustn’t think of the girl right now.

  ”The Lord doth not walk with wicked men; He consumes the liars, the fornicators, and the thieves with His wrath. Forever His Chosen remain pure. Amen.”

  Spoken together, their recitation betrayed no dialects. Tonal differences and the subtleties of intonation were filtered out, while the authority of His Word was amplified; a monotone, mechanistic messiah, one that made Henrik sweat despite the cold room, and brough
t gooseflesh to his arms even under the heat of their appraisal.

  The Texan spoke up next, also on the speaker system. “We face a difficult decision, Henrik. You want to join our Brotherhood, yet clearly you are not worthy of His Chosen, are you?”

  Henrik wasn’t sure if this was an actual question, or if it was merely rhetorical. A test of some kind. His eyes watered and burned beneath the blindfold as the smoke of incense threatened to gag him. Worthy? The many blessings of his most recent, most improbable lover infiltrated his consciousness. He decided to answer—question or not—to try and banish her scent and her taste and her intricate folds from his mind.

  “I…I—ahem…”

  Salty phlegm ran down the back of his throat and clogged his vocal cords. He swallowed repeatedly, and finally cleared away enough mucus to speak.

  “With all due respect, I am worthy in the eyes of the One Who may judge.” Then he added, quoting from Romans in the New Testament, “For all have sinned and come short of the glory of God.”

  Henrik winced at perhaps the boldest thing he had ever said to anyone, hoping the Brotherhood didn’t interpret it as mocking. It was one thing to take a jab at an evangelist’s Rolex. Another thing entirely to provoke the anointed.

  “The sins of the flesh taint the righteous, bringing evil upon His people. He shall send His Chosen before Him to judge. Amen.”

  Their collective response did not reassure. What he’d been told was an induction ceremony felt more like a trial. He has sent His Chosen before Him to judge. The words provoked curiosity and fear in equal measure. From what source did they quote? The thought of them having access to a holy text which he knew nothing about was unbearable. But if their words also implied a direct knowledge of his indiscretions with the girl—