Episode 011

Jequon is surprised by the identity of his captors. And he discovers the *real* threat to the Nephilim.

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Chapter 11

I open my eyes to family, not foes. The Nephilim Council, not the SOJ.

They sit in a neat row looking down at me from behind a long, mahogany paneled podium, like what a city council might sit behind--only mahogany.

Am I surprised? Very. Hurt? Deeply.

The Algonquin, located at 59 West 44 th Street in Manhattan, is best known for its Roundtable, a former meeting place of writers, actors, and other wits of note in the 1920s. In 1950, William Faulkner drafted his Nobel Prize acceptance speech here (at the time, I was three doors down the hall from his room, thoroughly enjoying the Algonquin's reputation as the first quality hotel in New York to welcome young ladies traveling alone; establishing a Nephilim safe-house here required little deliberation). Now you can enjoy a ten-thousand-dollar diamond-cooled martinis at the bar, a clever bit of marketing designed to attract the nostalgic and the nouveau rich. They'll pay over two-hundred a night, minimum, hoping to spot Dorothy Parker's ghost, or to take pictures of the famous nameplates indicating where stars have eaten in the dining hall. And they still never get to see the most impressive room at the Algonquin: the oval-domed auditorium I'm standing in, shackled hand and foot, three stories below street level. Mount Hermon, we call it, despite its cavernous depth.

Down here, the floors are covered with the same marble as the stairs leading up from the hotel lobby. The walls are a 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 and leading up to room 314, hidden behind a false wall. The shaft is serviced by a primitive elevator, stationed here in the auditorium during meetings to discourage intruders, however unlikely (since room 314 comes up perpetually occupied on the front desk computer).

I'm not planning an escape, but that doesn't keep me from considering how I might, should the need arise. Even in these chains, I could climb the elevator cable faster than an acrobat in Cirque du Soleil, but a fellow Naphil, sans shackles, would still catch me. Ditto trying to sprint and lose them in the labyrinth of subterranean tunnels outside the escape exits. Even if I could muster any speed in these shackles, the thirty-foot drop at the end of each tunnel necessitates a well executed tuck and roll to avoid breaking an ankle. Difficult in chains.

"Tell us, Jequon, how long have you been rogue?"

Ezeqeel is the first to address me. His father taught man how to predict the weather; he is moody, almost bipolar at times, an exception to our usual cool demeanor.

I don't answer. It is 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 sensitive beings.

"Did you really think that killing Artemis would keep the truth of your failings from us?" asks 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 title as the number-one tree killer among books-intended His Word to remain a purely oral tradition. I'm sure the Old Testament kills when performed as spoken word at open mic night.

"Let thy word be known," Kasdeja says. 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 maintain, 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 bathe in holy water.

Obviously, 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 occasional fuck-ups and mistakes. 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 to New York anyway? 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. 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," I say. "Artemis was in league with our enemy. He is the reason for the SOJ's unusual string of successes."

The calm, almost smug expression chiseled 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, but 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. A purposeful delay if there ever was one, 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: ...on a good day I couldn't snap them... But this is a bad day.

Finally, Samsaveel--who at least used to be a close friend-grants me a response. "Let thy word be known."

I breathe in slow and deep, wanting to keep my voice steady and calm, as only a lesser man loses control of his emotions under pressure. The air is cool, made cooler with the scent of mint oil and lavender, a traditional 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 testosterone infused sweat of past prisoners; instead, it smells as if a six-shooter fired a round of funeral flowers out the barrel.

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

"You may have sent Artemis to spy on me, a reality I admit I was unaware of until you brought me here. But under the guise of service, Artemis murdered one of our own: Lucian, a 3 rd Gen living in Sarajevo. And deceitful bastard that he was, tried to stage the crime scene to look like an SOJ killing."

"Enough!" Ezeqeel's interruption is loud enough to cause the granite walls to reverberate like the phantom ringing of a thick bell. "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," he says. "Let. Thy. Word. Be. Known." These last four words an almost whispered growl.

So Artemis didn't kill Lucian?

Damn. Not good.

His innocence a sucker-punch epiphany to the solar-plexus. I feel nauseous. Ashamed. Foolish. My muscles knot up like braided Kevlar and tremble like cold gelatin all at once. It's not the guilt that has me so shaken--though I do feel guilty--but rather, the nightmarish implication of his innocence. The dire omen the Council, Artemis, and even I failed to recognize, hidden in plain sight at the scene of the crime.

"Speak!" an enraged Kasdeja says in response to my flabbergasted silence.

What can I tell them? Every word I say in my defense, they see as a plea for mercy-so why speak? They believe I'm a murderer, even as their conviction blinds them to a far more sinister truth. My mouth is dry and bitter, as if I'd fallen asleep chewing on coffee grounds.

"Then we're through here," Amazarak says.

The gray mixed in with his blonde dulls his countenance; deep lines merge at the corners of his eyes like tributaries eroded into the slope of his cheeks by tears. Amazarak 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 and sledgehammer in hand. The back-the-fuck-off techno-beat fades in as if he hit "play" on my gray-matter head unit.

Bring it, I'm thinking, but I say, "Wait. I wish to speak."

"So you can delay justice a few more breaths with your lechery?"

Clearly I must've unknowingly flirted with one of Kasdeja's Veingels at some point, so eager 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 abort pregnancies. A victim of her remarkable beauty, his mother had been raped by a Druid priest before the elder Kasdeja arrived among the indigenous Celts. He wasn't about to let another man's evil spoil their love.

"Let him say his peace," Samsaveel says.

"Let thy word be known, Jequon!" Kasdeja hisses, "but deceive us again and we'll make sure you don't get to die a second time."

Gadreel eases back down into his seat, and though he tries to cover it, I can tell by the way he lets out his breath that he'd been holding it.

How does one foretell the imminent death of a people? Of one's own people?

"Ezeqeel," I say, "will you please display the images of Lucian you spoke of? What I am about to say will be supported by what is shown in the photos."

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

"Notice the brand," I say. "To you, dear cousins, nothing seems amiss. You are looking at what you already know the SOJ defile us with at the finish of their ritualistic slaughter…

"But what if I told you, that you don't know the true brand of the SOJ? That the brand we see on Lucian's head is a fake."

I pause to let this sink in, but I'm also contemplating my escape if I can't convince them to release me. I've already crossed running for an exit and climbing up the elevator shaft off my list of options. About the only thing left is to stand and fight and hope I get lucky.

"What's this nonsense about a ‘fake' brand? ‘Damned'--the same vulgarity the SOJ have been using since they separated from the other Hebrew tribes and began hunting us."

"And what tongue is ‘Damned' spelled in?" I ask rhetorically. "Our tongue, the sacred tongue of our fathers--unknown to man--a mystery even to our enemy...and yet, they brag of their exploits with a word only our people could know. Doesn't that strike you as odd?"

"No it doesn't," Ezeqeel says, "Sarkatheel, the first of our kind to be captured by the SOJ, had clearly been tortured to give up a phrase or two of our language in his last moments of agony. The branding started after him. What would seem odd, is if the SOJ suddenly stopped branding their victims."

"Sarkatheel, yes-I'll come back to him-but first I want to ask the members of the Council a simple question: How many of you have actually seen, first hand, the SOJ's handiwork on one of our people? not photographs, but the actual bodies?"

 "To my knowledge, none of us-save for you, Jequon--have seen the actual bodies after they were murdered. And why would we? You are the Protector."

"That's right, Shamsiel. Which means none of you have actually seen the brand either--except in photographs--and those, only within the last one-hundred-and-fifty years or so the technology has been available--and yet, you are certain there is nothing wrong with the brand on Lucian's forehead."

 "Why wouldn't we be certain?" Kasdeja asks. "Was it not you who informed us of the enemy's brand? You who provided the pictures depicting it? I've warned you, Jequon, if you are leading us astray again..."

"So, Kasdeja," I say, addressing him by name, rather than imply a hostility toward the Council as a whole, "my word was honored then, but now, it's no good?

"The truth is, the word 'Damned,' used by the SOJ in their ritual, has always been spelled out in Aramaic--not in our angelic tongue. That aspect of their brand is something I purposefully distorted, anticipating--erroneously in the case of Artemis--that some day one of us might try to cover up a murder by staging it to look like the SOJ were responsible.

"The bogus version you see burned into Lucian's flesh, was my way of identifying a murderer among us. Sarkatheel's torture merely provided a convenient explanation for my ruse-one you'll probably remember me promoting on more than one occasion. And as for the photos: doctored--every last one of them."

Samsaveel breaks their stunned silence, showing me he can still be counted as a friend.

"So if what you're saying is true--and I, for one, have never had reason to doubt your word--then Lucian was murdered by one of our own people?"

I shake my head. "It's worse than that," I say.

"How so? What could be worse?" asks Shamsiel.

"The Sons Of Jared have deciphered our language."

Everyone leans forward in their seats. I have their attention. And given the bombshell I just dropped, hopefully their trust. There are a few confused faces among the Council, but I can see many of them are beginning to figure out where I'm headed with this.

Shamsiel says, "Tell us more."

But I say nothing. I extend my arms and nod to the handcuffs and leg irons.

A tense silence envelops the room. No one moves, especially me. Now Kasdeja motions to Gadreel who stands with a key this time instead of a hammer and stake.

Free of my restraints, dignity restored, I continue.

"It's the only thing that explains the Nephilim version of 'Damned' burned into Lucian's forehead, and the impossible boost in the number of us they've slain.

"And it's only going to get worse. Think about it: we've gone electronic just like the rest of the world: Our donor databases, our safe houses...the Veingel registry, 1 st Gen territories, and so on-all of it accessible via the web.

"Now, we all know that even bank records can get hacked. But we always justified the risk by counting on our language. Combined with encryption, a language the enemy doesn't even understand is pretty much impossible to crack, and even if they did get past the encryption, who cares if a hacker cracks gibberish, right?

"Problem is, now the SOJ could have an English-to-Angel-dictionary."

"Let's hope not," Samsaveel says.

"Hope," I say, "like faith, is no refuge for the damned," quoting an aphorism of our people made popular by my father.

"We need to adjourn ASAP, and reconvene someplace the SOJ would have no way of knowing about, even if they've already learned the location of our safe houses. The last thing we need is to give them an opportunity to waste twenty-two of us all at once."

"Where?" Ezeqeel asks.

I'm pleased to see the rest of the Council looking to me for direction, granting me once more, as is my birthright, the role of Protector.

"We should get a yacht, unplug the radio, the weather satellite, and the GPS uplinks, and cruise off into blue water--somewhere tropical would be my preference. Sarajevo was cold."

I start to get more specific, but a faint draft distracts me, so slight it disturbs only the fine blonde hairs on my arms, and I pause to listen.

We all hear it.

The accelerating clank of metal ricocheting off stone, like a lantern dropped down the gaping maw of a mineshaft…

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