Rise Of The Nephilim

THE SAME MORNING, 5:00 A.M.

Maxine had only been asleep for a few hours since the changes to her appearance.

She awoke, staring up at her ceiling, as if in a trance. She felt separated from her body, as though a part of her had traveled to some distant land, a place both real and imagined, leaving behind only an empty shell to contend with this world.

The reality was she’d been summoned by her true father, Āmand, one of the remaining Fallen Angels, whose spirit had been intertwined with hers, as were all the children—Nephilim—of his line.

She rose from her bed, her body rigid, and walked toward the front door of her home, where she opened it and walked out without a single thought of the people she would be leaving behind, or that she’d still been wearing her white pajamas with tiny little butterflies, her hair matted, strings of it falling down her face.

The sun had just begun to light the morning sky when she left.

Maxine moved quickly as if under the shadows of some secret mission, knowing exactly where she was going, and to whom. Not even the nip in the air was enough to slow her.

The Metro station was only a short walk from the house, shortened further by a cut through the woods–something she would not have done under normal circumstances for fear of homeless lepers.

She waited close to the tracks, where there had been five other people: three men and two women. They were young, boisterous Goths, wearing black lipstick and black eyeliner, and had multiple piercings and shiny black hair, spiked with gel. They moved closer toward her.

“Hey, sweet thing, whatcha doing out here so early in the morning?” one asked.

Maxine did not answer. Instead, she continued to stare stoically down the metal tracks with her hands at her side as if she’d been standing at attention.

They moved in closer and began taunting her.

“Are you deaf?” asked one of the women. “Yeah, maybe she’s deaf,” she said, answering her own question.

Soon, the tracks rattled with the vibration of the incoming train in route to Manhattan, its lights flashing, its horn blaring until it came to a squeaking halt. The doors opened and Maxine boarded, completely aloof.

Her thoughts were not her own.

Āmand had taken over her mind and guided her to the catacombs beneath the city—unknown to even the government of the United States—catacombs that spanned New York, Brooklyn, Queens, Staten Island, the Bronx, and even beyond that. This was Babylon, home of the Fallen Angels.

She sat silent and emotionless, staring into an abyss, making no direct eye contact with the other passengers for the hour-long ride to the city, though the Goths continued to jeer, even with the other passengers looking on in silence.

“Look at them eyes!” one said, laughing. “Freaky!”

“Maybe she’s turning into one of them lepers.”

The train crept slowly into Grand Central Station. It stopped. The doors opened and Maxine exited, at times brushing into other travelers without even so much as an apology.

Āmand guided her thoughts. She saw what he saw:words painted on white walls, a rush of people with grim faces. She smelled what he smelled:urine, stale and rancid, embedded in the cracks and pores of old concrete. And she heard what he heard:the rattle of metal tracks as trains slowly moved out of their ports, the chatter of foreign tongues.

Completely unaware that the five Goths had been following her, Maxine walked toward an unauthorized area beyond the boarding stations and into a tunnel.

It was barely lit, with only a few fading subway lights casting a ruddy glow across the tracks.

She kept close to the walls, out of reach of the metal tracks. She had no fear or thought of death. Not even the thought of those she’d left behind entered her mind. Only the instinctual determination to satisfy a quest held her mind prisoner.

A winged shadow flew over her, bringing with it a soft wind that blew through her hair.

The shadow seemed to be guiding her every step. She followed obediently, never looking back at the world she was in such a hurry to forget, a cruel world; a world that saw only her eyes and used them to judge her character and her worth.

The Goths continued to follow, nudging each other in amusement, proud of their willingness to incite fear. But they were also annoyed that Maxine had not given them the reaction they believed they were entitled to. They increased their speed and yelled at her.

“Hey, bitch, where the hell are you going?” asked one. “We just want to talk to you!”

They caught up to her and surrounded her.

“Nowhere to go now, freak!”

Maxine tried to walk through them when one of the men grabbed her. They expected her to begin crying, maybe even beg for her life. However, the unexpected happened before they had a chance to even protest, let alone run.

Before they realized what had happened, two of them had broken limbs. One held his face, screaming, blood flowing between his fingers. The shadow descended upon them again and again.

Their screams echoed through the tunnel. Fear surged through them, the same fear they’d wished upon Maxine. It was then they realized that they’d entered a domain wherein they were not welcome.

Desperate now, they fled the tunnel, flailing, blood trailing and pride deflated.

Maxine hesitated and looked around, feeling confused and dazed. She knew that something or someone had attacked her. Still, she did not question why, or even how, or by whom.

Instead, she continued her journey through the tunnel. Her eyes were glazed over. She had a quest, and she was compelled to complete it.