I, Jequon: Part One of the Nephilim Chronicles Page 8

  Down here, the floors are covered with the same marble as the stairs leading up from the hotel lobby. The walls are rough-cut granite, pierced by archways spaced equidistantly around the chamber. There are six of these subterranean exits, but only one entrance. A narrow shaft cut into the ceiling which leads straight up several stories to room 314, the access panel hidden behind a false wall. A primitive elevator services the shaft, parked here at the bottom of the chamber during meetings to discourage intruders.

  Even in these chains, I could climb the elevator cable faster than an acrobat in Cirque du Soleil. Of course a fellow Naphil, sans shackles, would still catch me. Ditto trying to sprint to the labyrinth of underground tunnels outside the emergency exits. Even if I could muster any speed in these restraints, the thirty-foot drop at the end of each tunnel necessitates a well executed tuck-and-roll to avoid breaking an ankle.

  “Tell us, Jequon, how long have you been rogue?”

  It’s Ezequeel who addresses me first. His father taught man how to predict the weather. He is moody, almost bipolar at times, an exception to our usually cool demeanor.

  I don’t answer. It is our custom to give all members of the Council a turn to speak before responding to any one member, unless instructed otherwise with the traditional, Let thy word be known. A phrase with many layers of significance to spiritually aware beings.

  “Did you really think that killing Artemis would keep the truth of your failings from us?”

  Penemue. As written in the so-called apocryphal Book of Enoch, his father sinned when he taught men to write on parchment. Apparently God, despite the Bible’s record as the number-one tree killer among books, intended His Word to remain a purely oral tradition.

  “Let thy word be known.”

  Kasdeja. He is rare in that he has only been elected to the Council one time.

  I’ve been nominated to sit on the Council seventy-six times. Seventy-six times I graciously declined the nomination. A tradition I would steadfastly uphold, were it not for the most recent election, where in all twenty rounds of voting, my name did not appear on a single ballot. Is it possible that after seven-thousand-six-hundred years my peers simply grew tired of me declining their nomination? Maybe. And is it also possible that Lucian’s murder, the sniper attack, Artemis’s betrayal, and the SOJ’s recent success in slaying my people aren’t the least bit related? Maybe.

  And maybe Lucifer likes to lather-up in holy water.

  Obviously though, Artemis’ alibi in Sarajevo wasn’t a total fabrication. The Council really did assign him to investigate me, understandably concerned with the recent spike in SOJ killings. But what they don’t seem to realize (yet) is that Artemis was the likely cause of the spike, a confusion I intend to clear up post-haste.

  “I have never been a rogue. Nor anything less than a defender of our people; I am and always will be a dagger between the ribs of our enemy; a gun in the turret of every castle wherein Nephilim sleep soundly beneath the shadows of protection.

  “As to my failings, I admit to being human—half—like the rest of you, though as our fathers proved so well: to err is angel, and so I’ll proudly claim a dual pedigree for the occasional fuck-up or mistake. But what I will not claim is the title of traitor. Treachery is what I killed Artemis for. I have nothing to hide. Why do you think I was on a flight back to New York? For the Mets?”

  “Perhaps you planned to kill one of us next.”

  Amazarak, sarcastic as always.

  “Let thy word be known.”

  I have no words sufficient to address the betrayal I feel. But silence is acceptance in our culture, so it’s imperative that I speak quickly and convincingly of my innocence.

  “I came here to warn the Council. Artemis was in league with our enemy. He is the reason for the SOJ’s alarming string of slayings.”

  The smug expression etched into the Council’s faces suggests they’re not convinced.

  Kasdeja says, “We sent Artemis to investigate your incompetence, Jequon. How much longer are you going to insult us with these desperate lies? Have you no honor?”

  I am smoldering inside at the question of my honor. Because it’s still intact, I hold my tongue until requested to speak. No one on the Council seems in a hurry to grant me a response, however. It’s a purposeful delay, a mini-punishment for what they view as disrespect from me. I strain against the titanium cuffs. Already my wrists are raw, the bones beneath bruised, evidence I struggled against them even as I slept during my drug-induced transport from the airport. I remember thinking: even on a good day I couldn’t snap them.

  And this is a bad day.

  Finally, Samsaveel—who at least used to be a close friend—grants me a rebuttal. “Let thy word be known.”

  I breathe in slow and deep, wanting to keep my voice steady and clear. The air is cool, made cooler with the scent of mint oil and lavender, a ceremonial cologne of sorts worn by my people. It would be a pleasing aroma, were it not for the sour reek of the pitted hand cuffs, corroded by the fear-sweat of past prisoners.

  I take a moment to survey each and every accuser, to look in every eye, from right to left and back again, proclaiming my innocence with every gaze held.

  “You may have sent Artemis to keep tabs on me, a reality I admit I was unaware of until you brought me here. But under the guise of service, Artemis contributed to the murder of one of our own: Lucian, a 3rd Gen living in Sarajevo. And deceitful bastard that Artemis was, he tried to frame me by providing the enemy with—”

  “Enough!”

  Ezequeel’s reproach reverberates off the granite walls like the cries of a trapped miner.

  “Artemis was in Constantinople with me when we intercepted digital photos of Lucian’s demise. Now cease this charade or I will cut your fucking tongue out myself. Let. Thy. Word. Be. Known.”

  Digital photos? I don’t know what to make of that. I want to ask the Council how they came by such valuable intel, but they’re asking the questions here, and any attempt at inquiry would be met with a harsh rebuke. It just doesn’t compute. Are what they’re referring to as photos actually stills spliced from the same webcam video Yuri shared with me? How would the Council have obtained those? Seems a little pat to me. Like Artemis was working with Lucian’s killers, and he leaked the photos to the Council after he had Ezequeel around for an alibi.

  “Speak!” Kasdeja, enraged by my flabbergasted silence.

  I’d like to speak. But my mouth is dry and bitter, as if I’d fallen asleep chewing on coffee grounds. What can I tell them? Every word I say in my defense, they interpret as a plea for mercy. They believe I’m a murderer and their conviction blinds them.

  Everything I know points to Artemis’s guilt. Every piece of evidence the Council has points to me. What am I not seeing? As far I’m concerned, the photos are just another part of Artemis’s well-orchestrated frame job. Plus there’s the botched brand. Damned spelled in the Angelic tongue; only a Naphil could have given that to the SOJ, and it sure as hell wasn’t me.

  “Then we’re through here.”

  Deep lines merge at the corners of Amazarak’s eyes like tear-eroded tributaries. His once wheat-blonde hair now dulled with evenly disbursed locks of curly gray. This cousin had the misfortune of residing in Sicily during the mid-fourteenth century outbreak of the Black Plague. That, along with his stubborn refusal to migrate north to Poland or the Netherlands, not to mention his germaphobia, caused him to miss many feedings that would have preserved his youth.

  Gadreel stands from his seat, stake in one hand, sledgehammer in the other.

  Bring it, I’m thinking but don’t say. Instead, I tell them that I wish to speak.

  “So you can delay justice a few more breaths with your lies?”

  Clearly I must’ve flirted with one of Kasdeja’s Veingels at some point, as eager as he is to see me executed. Like his father, killing as a solution to a problem comes easier to him than most Nephilim. Kasdeja the Watcher instructed the women of earth on how to a
bort pregnancies. His mother had been raped by a Druid priest just before the elder Kasdeja arrived among the indigenous Celts; he hadn’t allowed another man’s evil to spoil their love.

  “Let him say his piece.”

  This from Samsaveel, another token, perhaps, of our once strong friendship.

  “Let thy word be known, Jequon! But deceive us again and we’ll make sure you don’t enjoy a second death.” Kasdeja’s command is as much hiss as speech.

  Gadreel eases back down into his seat. I can tell by the way he exhales, he’s somewhat relieved. I wouldn’t want to try and kill me, either.

  As for a precise explanation, I’m only on the cusp of it. I need to buy more time until I’m able to articulate what’s, at this moment, a paper-thin hunch.

  “Ezequeel, will you please display the images of Lucian you spoke of?”

  Whether Artemis provided them or not, whatever photos they have ought to clear my name.

  Ezequeel nods and slides a USB memory stick into a port built into his spot at the podium. A two-sided flat screen display actuates from a recess in the floor. Soon, we are viewing a slideshow comprised of different shots of Lucian’s wrecked corpse. I instruct Ezequeel to freeze on a close-up of his face.

  “We know the brand is wrong. Whether you believe I put it there, or you believe, as I do, that Artemis gave it to the enemy, we can see it’s not written in the usual Aramaic the SOJ have always used in their disgraceful ceremonies.

  “Ezequeel, how many days ago did you and Artemis intercept the photos of Lucian?”

  “It was two-and-half days ago. Fifty-two hours almost to the minute.”

  “Which proves I had nothing to do with his murder, because I was here in New York, preparing for this very meeting of the Council, ensuring your security as I always have.

  “And notice the condition of Lucian’s body. He couldn’t have been dead for much more than forty-eight hours.”

  Several members of the Council fidget in their seats. It doesn’t take a forensic biologist to see what I’m getting at.

  “Penemue and Samsaveel can vouch for me. I had drinks with them on Saturday here in the city. Which means there’s no way I could have been the one to kill Lucian in Sarajevo. There wouldn’t have been time.”

  I pause to let this sink in. Running for an exit or climbing up the elevator shaft have already been crossed off my list of possible escapes. So if they don’t have a change of heart real soon, then it’s time to stand and fight. Encumbered by the restraints, outnumbered 21:1 by fellow 1st Gens, I would almost certainly lose my life in such a contest. But my honor will remain intact.

  Ezequeel speaks again, this time with slightly less venom in his delivery. “I can assure the Council that Artemis didn’t kill Lucian. He was with me in Constantinople—for several days, in fact—before the 3rd Gen’s probable time of death. In fairness to Jequon, it would seem he couldn’t have done the deed either. But that still doesn’t explain how our native tongue ended up singed into Lucian’s forehead. Perhaps Jequon had something to do with that.”

  Samsaveel asks, “The same could be said of Artemis, could it not? What say you, Jequon, to this point? Let thy word be known.”

  If only I knew those words were the truth. Here’s to working without a net. “Our tongue, the sacred tongue of our fathers, unknown to man, and a mystery even to our enemy. Yet, they brag of their exploits with a word only one of our people could know. This fact alone leads us to suspect a fellow Naphil of providing it to them. The same as it led me, erroneously perhaps, to suspect Artemis, and, most likely, Artemis and certain members of the Council to suspect me.” I lock eyes with Kasdeja before continuing. “But what if there’s another explanation? One far more dire?”

  Kasdeja can’t help himself; my stare must’ve provoked him. He addresses me with only minimally repressed frustration. “Do not stall, Jequon. You appear to have a theory, so reveal it. Let thy word be known.”

  He’s right, of course. I am stalling. I’m stalling because, if this new explanation for the SOJ’s runaway kill rate is accurate, then we’ve got far bigger problems than a traitor to contend with. I need to make sure what I’m about to share is something more than a hunch, or I need to keep it to myself. Unfortunately this grudge-holding cousin is having none of my reticence.

  “Out with it!”

  I wait just long enough to answer to let Kasdeja know what I think of taking orders from him, but not so long as to lose any sympathy I’ve garnered from the rest of the Council. “I believe The Son’s Of Jared have successfully translated our language.”

  Twenty Nephilim lean forward in their seats. Kasdeja’s the only one who seems the least bit skeptical, though he is a shade or two lighter in complexion.

  “I’ve warned you, Jequon, if you are leading us astray again…”

  “So, Kasdeja…” I address him by name, rather than imply a hostility toward the Council as a whole. “My word is honored for almost ten centuries, but now, because you don’t like what I’m saying, it’s no good?”

  Only after the words have left my mouth do I realize I spoke without being granted the privilege. No matter; Samsaveel chimes in before Kasdeja can object to my breach in etiquette.

  “So if what you’re saying is true, and I, for one, have never had reason to doubt your word, then the enemy has pierced the veil of privacy we previously believed to be impregnable? Tell us more.”

  But I’m not saying another word so long as I stand before them a prisoner. I extend my arms, nod to the handcuffs, and gesture toward the leg irons.

  Suddenly it’s quieter than the library at a mime school. No one moves, especially me. Five full seconds pass before Kasdeja motions to Gadreel. He holds a key this time, instead of the hammer and stake.

  Free of my restraints, dignity restored, I continue. “It’s the only thing that explains the bogus brand and the sudden increase in slayings. My fear now is that they’re about to accelerate. Think about it. We’ve gone electronic just like the rest of the world. Our donor databases, our safe houses, the Veingel registry, 1st Gen territories, and so on. All of it is accessible via the web. Even bank records are hacked on occasion. But we always justified the risk by counting on our language to render such a breach harmless.

  “And given what we knew, such confidence wasn’t unreasonable. We invested in sophisticated firewalls. We routed access through a VPN. Combined with encryption, a language the enemy doesn’t even understand is pretty much impossible to crack. Even if they did defeat the encryption, who cares if all they see is undecipherable gibberish? Problem is, the SOJ seem to have an Angel-to-English-dictionary at their disposal.”

  “Let’s hope not,” Samsaveel says.

  “Hope, like faith, is no refuge for the damned.” An aphorism well known among our people, popularized by my father. “We should adjourn. ASAP. Reconvene someplace the SOJ would have no way of knowing about even if they’ve already learned the location of our safe houses. We stay here, and they can waste twenty-two of us all in one go.”

  Ezequeel asks where I had in mind. I’m pleased to see the rest of the Council also looking to me for direction, granting me once more, as is my sanction, the role of Protector.

  “We should rent a yacht. Unplug the radio, the weather satellite, and the GPS uplinks, and then sail off into blue water. Somewhere tropical would be my preference. Sarajevo was cold.”

  Before I can suggest a specific location, a faint draft distracts me, so slight it disturbs only the fine blonde hairs on my arms. The noise accompanying it, however, is anything but subtle. We all hear it: The accelerating clank of metal ricocheting off stone, like a lantern dropped down the gaping maw of a cavern.

  Or a suitcase nuke shoved into the no-longer-secret elevator shaft hidden in room 314 of the Algonquin.

  “Run!” someone screams.

  By the time my brain registers the command, I’m forty yards away from where I stood in front of the Council’s podium, wind in my face like a deodorant com
mercial. I rush blind through the left archway and keep on sprinting into the darkness.

  If it’s a suitcase nuke, I’m already vapor.

  Now the marble floor gives way to the metallic concavity of a massive steel tube. My boots clink against its interior like rat paws in a pipe organ as an even blacker circle of nothing rushes toward me in lockstep with my stride. The end of the tunnel, a nasty tumble at this speed. The least of my worries.

  The flash from the explosion is like a billion blazing suns.

  And now I’m falling, flailing like a squirrel on ice-skates. I jamb my fingers into my ears. Too late as the sound pressurizes the air like a firecracker going off in a coffee can.

  And now the heat, a half-heart-beat after detonation. Simultaneous with the flame, above me like falling brimstone. Gravity spares me, sucking me down to the floor of this mini-chasm greedy to break my bones unless I land just right.

  I tuck and pivot mid-air, timing my forward-flip with the illumination of the fast-receding tendrils of flame above me. Feet first, I stick the landing, the knee-high runoff cushioning my fall.

  It’s darker than the socket-side of Long John Silver’s eye-patch down here. I can’t see shit. I can only smell it. So I listen… For moaning. For screams.

  Nothing.

  Not a nuke, but plenty enough bomb to kill.

  Smoke fills the crevice, swirling silently down in a particulate avalanche of throat searing grit. I want to hack and cough and fill my lungs with less toxic air, but the burned bacon and singed-skin bouquet of charred flesh overpowers these urges. I vomit, instead.

  They’re all gone.

  But I won’t believe it.

  They wheeled their leather chairs out from underneath the podium, I tell myself. They stood. Then turned. They ran to the nearest exit. Nothing and no one was in the way to trip over, I pretend.

  I heard the clank of the metal briefcase toppling its way down the elevator shaft, the metallic thud when it hit the floor a finger-snap before detonation. My cousins heard it, too. Still in their seats.