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A Nephilim Series Glossary

 Nephilim, Nephil – The Nephilim (plural): a race of cursed human/demon hybrid beings, descended from an ancient group of fallen angels. Nephil (singular): one of the Nephilim.

The Watchers – A group of 200 angels who lived on Earth circa 3000 BCE. The Watchers were cursed by Heaven after they took human women as wives. This forbidden union produced the cursed race known as the Nephilim.

The curse of the Nephilim was delivered by the archangel Raphael. It removed their souls and limited their maximum lifespan to 120 years, with no hope of an afterlife. The curse also causes Nephil clans to war amongst themselves. If they ever got together, the fragments of Heavenly magic—divided amongst the Nephil clans—might be reunited. And that might not be such a good thing.

Oblivion – The state of hopeless and eternal non-being awaiting the Nephilim after death. To be avoided and delayed at all costs.

The Ordeal – a physical and mental transformation process by which a dormant Nephil becomes adept. During the Ordeal, a Nephil gains full magical powers, including the ability to shapeshift into demon form. A failed Ordeal results in death or insanity.

Adept – An adult Nephil, who has completed the Ordeal and gained full magical powers.

Dormant – A young Nephil who hasn't yet gained full magical powers via the Ordeal.

Guide – The adept who assists a transitioning dormant through the Ordeal. Without a guide, a transitioning Nephil has very little chance of surviving the Ordeal with his/her life and sanity intact.

Enthrallment – Enslavement. A Nephil adept is most easily enthralled by his/her guide upon exiting the Ordeal. A defeat in battle may also allow the victorious adept to enthrall the defeated one, but this is much less certain. Enthrallment can only be broken by the death of master or thrall. 

Near-death experience (NDE) – An NDE, experienced by a Nephil dormant, triggers the Ordeal. If a post-puberty dormant doesn't experience a NDE and subsequent Ordeal, his/her cells mutate, causing cancer and an early death.

Ancestral Memories – Memories of Nephil adepts who are now in Oblivion, all that remain of a Nephil after death. Ancestral memories become accessible to direct descendants during and after the Ordeal.

Who am I and WTF am I doing here? TNEFA Chapter 2, Excerpt 2

THE NEPHILIM: BOOK ONE

The Night Everything Fell Apart
From Chapter Two...
Arthur had found his mother’s touchstone.He took a quick step backward, as if needing to distance himself from the immensity of his achievement. His foot slipped on the moss; he only just managed not to fall. He staggered to the center of the garden and dropped heavily onto a stone bench. Long moments passed before his breathing slowed and his stomach settled. He examined the stone with shaking hands. A three-rayed star shone within a translucent blue moonstone. The carved apple wood setting resembled an intricate tangle of vines. An unbroken silver chain passed through the carving. A distant memory called—Arthur’s own this time. He was in his mum’s arms, swatting at the stone. He’d wanted it for himself. His mum had laughed and said it was not yet time. Well, it was past time now. He dropped the chain over his head. He might have searched for a new touchstone for his magic, but this one, passed down through generations of his line, was the best tool to focus his magic. Now that he’d found it, he would...He frowned. His goal was...what, precisely? The image of a woman—blond, tall, eyes like jade—appeared in his head. She was waiting for him. But who was she? Where was she? Why did it matter so damn much? Sod it all, he couldn’t remember. His ancestors’ memories were murky rubbish. Memories of his childhood, however, were unfortunately clear. His gaze darted to the house. Leave, screamed the voice of his terrified younger self. Leave.He was halfway to the door before he even realized he was in motion. He was on the front step before his brain registered a protest. He flung open the door and stepped into a narrow hall. Parlor and dining room to the right, library to the left. He strode straight ahead into the kitchen.The shock of it hit him like a slap across the face. The room was in shambles—furniture overturned, floor strewn with shattered glass. Cabinets hung open. The calendar above the icebox, stuck to the wall with a tack, hung askew. His mother’s valise, the one with the embroidered roses, stood upright by the door.Dark splatters covered it all. Floor, walls, furniture, even the ceiling. Blood.He didn’t know what he’d expected, but it wasn’t this. Nothing had changed, except that his parents’ corpses no longer lay in a heap on the floor. Mab must have disposed of the bodies. Maybe she’d returned to search for his mother’s moonstone. Luckily, she hadn’t found it. Mab hadn’t killed his parents, but she’d shown up soon afterward. She’d claimed Tristan’s diamond touchstone right off his dead body. It had become a decoration on her whip handle. For seven years, each time Arthur had seen his father’s gem, each time he’d felt the lash of the whip’s hellfire, his hatred of his clan’s new alpha had burned hotter. Maybe that was why, while the rest of his brain seemed to have turned to muck, his memory of Mab remained clear. The farmhouse table lay on its side, a rusty smear slashing across the spot where Arthur had eaten his daily porridge. On the floor nearby, a larger stain marked the place where his parents’ bodies had fallen. Their blood, dead and dry, was all that was left of them.Anger and grief, helplessness and hopelessness, rushed in on him. A high-pitched tone rang in his ears. The shriek escalated with each labored breath. It twisted inside his skull, scraped through his brain. He pressed shaking hands to his ears. No good. The noise was inside his head.His stomach turned. Wave after wave of unreality assaulted him. Everything around him turned...strange. Unreal. Where was he? He looked wildly about the room. Enamel sink, copper counter, oak table. Stained floor. Suddenly, none of it looked familiar.Sweat broke out on his forehead. Where was he? How had he gotten here? Why had he come? Acid panic burned in his veins.Get out. Get out now.And go where? He couldn’t think of a place. He didn’t, he realized with lurching dread, even know his own name. Who the hell was he? What was he?Air. He needed air. He crossed to a window. The glass was muddy. He grasped the sash and shoved. It didn’t budge. He looked closer. What he’d thought was mud was blood. A thousand droplets of dried blood. He balled his fist and smashed the glass. A jagged edge sliced his thumb. He staggered back, staring at the crimson trail running down his forearm. His heart banged. His lungs worked like a bellows. The blood ran to his elbow. Dripped to the floor. Crouching in the garden, peering in the window. A tall man, a Nephil. Pale and gaunt. The hem of his black cape brushed his knees, the edges of its crimson lining like streaks of blood. A ring on his left middle finger bore a golden face as its signet. It looked like its wearer... Lips pursing, eyes blinking...Dark gold hellfire, whipping from the Nephil’s hands, sharp as a blade. Slicing through Father’s neck. Blood spurting. Spattering the window. Father’s body, crumpling. Falling, falling... The murderer and his ring, both smiling... The scream began in Arthur’s gut. It pummeled a path from his diaphragm, to his ribs, to his throat. His lungs sucked air. His mouth opened, but his cry emerged in silence. Living, shaking silence, vibrating so fiercely his tendons threatened to separate from his bones. Power streamed through his body. It blasted from his hands. Pure white light, consuming everything in its path. The kitchen, its contents, its memories. For an eternity, or perhaps only for an instant, there was nothing but brilliance.And then there was only nothing.He fell as if dropped by an unseen hand from a great height. His hip struck something solid and pain shot down his leg. He lurched to his feet. His knees buckled. He grabbed the edge of the sink. Long moments later, he righted a fallen chair and lowered himself into it, rubbing the lingering pain in this thigh. When his breathing had slowed and his heart was no longer pounding like a drum, he stood. He looked—really looked—at the room around him. And froze.His brain struggled to make sense of what his eyes saw—or, more accurately, what they didn’t see. His parents’ blood—on the floor, on the table, on the window—had vanished. The squealing echo in his skull was gone, too. Silence—pure and ominous—remained.He passed his hand down his face. What the fuck was going on? He’d done magic again, without planning, without knowing, without even being aware of it until it was over. Once again, his memory had failed, reducing his life to dark, ragged gaps. It wasn’t the first time he’d blacked out since his Ordeal. Far from it. His time as a Nephil adept could be described as a few islands of lucidity engulfed by a sea of darkness. Simple exhaustion? A natural learning curve? Insanity? With no guide to teach him, he couldn’t know.His fingers closed on the moonstone. He’d pinned all his hopes on the gem. While he could use any stone as a focus to his magic, a gem handed down through one’s own ancestral line offered the greatest advantage. He’d hoped his mother’s stone would end his blackouts. But here it was, in his possession, and he was no better off than before.Coming so abruptly back to himself, to the aftermath of magic he couldn’t remember calling, left him on the edge of panic. And there was something else...or, rather, someone else, wavering indistinctly in the back his mind. His own memory? A fragment of a long-dead ancestor’s past? Whichever it was, the jade-eyed woman never wandered far from his awareness. He heaved the table upright. It teetered, then thudded into place. Roaming the kitchen, he set chairs on their legs and retrieved fallen cookware. He swept up shattered crockery and emptied it into the rubbish bin. He would remember, he told himself. He had to. He stacked two chairs, broken beyond repair, in a corner of the room. He placed his mother’s valise, unopened, beside them. His head jerked up. Fine hairs lifted on the back of his neck. The noise was slight. Nothing more than a faint creak on the back stair. Every muscle tensed. His palms tingled. He shifted onto the balls of his feet, listening. Footsteps, descending. Pausing. Someone—or something—was in the house. A cold drip of sweat trickled down the side of his face. Mab? No. The Druid alpha would never sneak. But who else could have gotten through her wardings? The back stair gave out in a corner of the kitchen. Arthur moved toward it on silent feet, mentally tracing the intruder’s path. Nine steps down from the upper hall to the landing. A tight turn then another ten steps down to the kitchen. Once on that lower stretch, his descending quarry would be effectively trapped. He inhaled. Druid magic, cast with any measure of control, felt impossible. Magic common to all Nephil clans, however, seemed much more doable. Shifting into demon form, even that first, harrowing time, had been instinctive. Casting hellfire also came fairly easily. He only had to think of it to have it spring, burning, to his fingertips. Actually aiming it at a target was more of a challenge. A creak sounded in the stairwell. The intruder had resumed his descent, with a cautious footstep on the landing. Another pause. Another squeaking tread. A figure appeared...Arthur surged up the steps. With a snap of his wrists, hissing fire streaked into the narrow passage. His aim was pitiful. One white streak hit the ceiling. The other struck the wall. The recoils bounced, whip-like, to wind about his adversary’s neck. Arthur leaped back, stumbling down the stair, pulling the firelashes with him. His captive bounced down the last three steps and landed hard at his feet. It was a woman. A blond woman, dressed in blue jeans and a flowery, flowing blouse. She gagged, clawing at the hellfire wrapped around her throat. Her eyes—wide and jade green—met his. Her lips parted.“Arthuuuuuuur—”Recognition slammed into his brain. Followed by pure, primal terror. “Fuck!” He dropped to his knees. He hauled Cybele into his arms even before he’d managed to banish the last sputter of his hellfire. Her body sagged across his thighs. Her eyes rolled up, and her head lolled to one side. She went limp.“No,” he rasped. “No.” He ran a shaking hand over her head, her shoulder. He flattened his palm against her chest. Her heart was beating. He clung to the sensation. The rhythm was rapid and none too steady. His own heart stuttered.Was she breathing? His firelash had left an angry red welt across her throat. It didn’t look like he’d crushed her windpipe. But her chest...it wasn’t moving.“Damn it. Damn it. Fuckingdamn it.” He grasped her shoulder and shook. Nothing. He tried again, harder. Her head snapped forward. A rasping sound—her lungs abruptly sucked air. Her spine arched with the force of it. Arthur’s rush of relief was so intense, it caused black spots to dance before his eyes. Cybele’s exhale shuddered out of her lungs. He froze, waiting. An eternity passed before the next breath came.“That’s it.” He held her tightly and rocked her back and forth on his lap. If he’d had a soul, he might’ve even uttered a prayer. “Breathe, damn it. Breathe.” Perhaps Heaven was watching. If so, he was sure it was laughing. Cybele’s third breath was a choking gasp. Fear closed Arthur’s throat. His arms were banded around her ribs. Too tightly? He forced himself to loosen his hold.He lowered her onto the floor. Her lips parted. With trembling hands, he cupped her face. “Come on,” he muttered. “Come on...”She sucked in a breath, and then expelled it in a bout of fierce coughing. He rolled her onto her side and pounded between her shoulder blades. When at last the hacking subsided, he eased her onto her back. She was definitely breathing. But her chest rose and fell in an erratic rhythm. “Cybele.” She gave no indication she’d heard. “God damn it, Cybele! Wake up.”This time, her eyelids fluttered. He tensed, willing them to open. They didn’t. Her complexion was deathly pale, her lips a faint shade of blue. Fuck. Her hands were like ice. The red stripe across her neck might as well have been a lash against his own back.He couldn’t bear to look at what he’d done to her. He gathered her into his lap and cradled her head against his chest. She shivered. His ran his hands up and down her arms, generating friction. If he could have brought her right inside him and given her all his heat, he would have done it. A sick feeling settled in his chest. He’d remembered Mab, that bloody bitch, but somehow, he’d forgotten Cybele. How the hell could she have left his mind, even for an instant? She meant everything to him. “Don’t you dare die,” he muttered. “Don’t you dare.”He didn’t know how to heal with his magic. He tried anyway, pouring all the life energy he could muster into her body. His effort seemed to help. Her shuddering abated. The blue tinge of her lips yielded to a pale pink. Her next inhale was less of a gasp and more of a wheeze. Her lips parted. “Not...dying.” Her eyelids fluttered open. Their gazes locked. “Not even...close.”He swallowed. “Are you sure?” “Harder...to kill...than tha—” Another coughing fit took her.“Bollocks,” he muttered. “Not again.” He urged her to sit up and lean forward, his hand on her nape.She held up one finger. “Just...give me...a sec.” The coughing abated. Her hand fluttered downward, as if it weighed too much for her arm to support. “Take your time,” he said. “Take all the time you need.”She nodded. Several long moments passed. Finally, she raised her head. “Better,” she said. “I think.”He examined her more closely. When his gaze fell on her neck, he tasted bile. He might have killed her with his blind strike. If he had proper control of his magic, she wouldn’t have stood a chance. His mind started to run with the scenario. Ruthlessly, he choked it off. She’s not dead,he told himself. Not. Dead. Not dead, not dead, not dead. Color had flooded her cheeks. Her breathing was still uneven, though. He grabbed her wrist and pressed the pulse point. Weak. He frowned into her eyes. Her pupils were dilated.She blinked up at him. “Dang it, Arthur. Quit looking at me like that.”His chest eased a fraction. If she had enough energy to tell him off, she wasn’t dying quite yet.  “Don’t look at you like what? Like you’re bloody lucky to be alive? Sweet Lucifer, Cybele, what were you doing, sneaking down those steps? You scared the piss out of me!”“I scared you? What about me? Next time try looking before you attack.”“Rubbish. You should’ve let me know it was you.”Her green eyes flashed. “Give me some credit. I’d have to be dumber’n a bag of rocks to call out before I knew...” She sucked in a breath. “...before I knew—it was y—” She dissolved into another round of coughing.“Fuck. I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s my fault.” When she started to reply, he shook his head. “Quiet. Don’t talk. Just breathe.”She pressed a fist to her chest and nodded. When the coughing finally stopped, she looked up and offered a wry smile. “You know, I think that’s the first time you ever apologized to me.”He snorted. “Don’t accustom yourself.”“No chance of that,” she said.
 Order now: The Night Everything Fell Apart 

The Night Everything Fell Apart Main Characters

THE NEPHILIM: BOOK ONE

The Night Everything Fell ApartMain Characters Arthur Camulus– A Nephil adept of the Druid Clan. Direct descendant of Merlin Ambrosius, the most powerful Nephil ever known. Arthur has recently emerged from a rare, unguided Ordeal. He’s experiencing blackouts and fits of dangerous, uncontrollable magic.
Cybele Herne – A Nephil dormant of the Druid clan. Arthur’s best friend and lover.
Mab – A Nephil adept, alpha of the Druid clan. Collector of thralls.
Raphael, Gabriel, Michael – Heaven’s archangels. They’re keeping an eye on Earth’s troublesome Nephil demons.
Vaclav Dusek – A Nephil adept, alpha of the Alchemist Clan. Director of the Prague Institute for the Study of Man. Strangely, Dusek seems to have been alive longer than his maximum allotment of 120 years.
Maweth – A demon, the personification of Death. Trapped and enslaved by Dusek.
Fortunato (Lucky) – A dimwitted cherub with a penchant for getting into trouble.
Lucas Herne – A Nephil adept of the Druid clan. Twin brother of Cybele. Luc, recently emerged from his Ordeal, is enthralled to Mab.
Order now: The Night Everything Fell Apart

Angels and Demons TNEFA Chapter 2, Excerpt 1

THE NEPHILIM: BOOK ONE 

The Night Everything Fell Apart  From Chapter Two...Michael turned his phone sideways. The video enlarged to fill the screen, but it was barely an improvement. He couldn’t quite make out exactly how the three human males were connected to the two human females. Frustrated, he backtracked and started another video. This one showed only two males, not a female in sight. Interesting. How many different ways could there possibly be for humans to copulate?“Abomination!” The phone slipped from his grip and went flying into blue sky. It exploded overhead. A shower of sparks rained down. Each tiny light disappeared into the cloud under his feet.Michael regarded his brother sourly. “F-f-f...fuckit!” It was difficult, almost painful, to form human profanity on his tongue. He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to get it out until he heard the syllable explode from his lips. It gave him an odd feeling—energized and strangely satisfied. He sat up and grinned.Raphael regarded him with undisguised horror. “What did you say?”“Want me to say it again?”“In the name of all that’s holy, no!” Gabriel, who was inspecting his fingernails while seated atop a nearby puff of mist, fluttered his silver wings and snorted. Raphael cast a baleful eye upon him. “Don’t you start, too.”“Who, moi?” Gabe looked up, all wide-eyed and innocent. “Why, I wouldn’t dream of it! There’s certainly no reason for me to get involved just because you can’t control Michael.”“It’s got nothing to do with control,” Raphael said.Gabriel stood. “Come now, brother.” Grasping his walking stick in his left hand, he smoothed the lapel of his linen suit with his right. “Angels aren’t supposed to lie. Archangels, least of all.”The darkest thundercloud could not have rivaled Raphael’s expression for pure fury. His robes whipped around his legs as if buffeted by gale-force winds. His hand landed on the hilt of his sword. “Are you accusing me of falsehood?”“If the sandal fits,” Gabe said, cheekily ignoring the oncoming storm. Fingers spread, he frowned down at his left hand. Sighing, he propped his walking stick up against a tuft of cloud and snapped his fingers. An emery board appeared. With the virtuosity of an artist, he applied it to the offending fingernail.Raphael glowered. “Insolent brat.”“Insufferable bore,” Gabe replied.Michael sat back on his cloud, content to watch his siblings quarrel. Raphael would win, of course. Eventually. Until then, Gabriel could drag out a squabble from here to eternity.His brothers could not be more different. Raphael, eldest, was the golden boy, with shoulder-length blond hair and a blindingly handsome face. He was, in Michael’s private opinion, the pompous back end of a donkey. If he’d ever seen Raphael wearing anything but sun-bright robes, gold-wrought sandals, and a gilded, belted scabbard—Sword of Righteous Vengeance sheathed threateningly inside—Michael could not remember it. Gabriel, the middle brother, was pale. Skin white as parchment, eyes silver-grey. He invariably dressed in a white linen suit, white-on-white striped shirt, skinny silver tie, and white shoes and socks. His hair was clipped short and was—surprise!—pure as driven snow. He carried a white, silver-handled walking stick. A pair of diamond stud earrings, set in platinum, gleamed in his lobes.The argument went on. And on. And on. Bored, Michael snapped his fingers. A new smart phone appeared in his hand. He bent his head over the screen and occupied himself scrolling through website after website. He just couldn’t get enough of this human porn thing. The Earth’s Internet was full of it! And cats. For some reason, always cats. He was so absorbed in his...erm...research of the human realm that he didn’t notice the altercation had ended until a shadow fell over him. He looked up to find Raphael staring him down. “May I help you?” Michael inquired.“What,” his brother intoned, “is that infernal human device?”Michael quickly shoved the phone into the back pocket of his jeans. “It’s called a smart phone. Almost all humans have one. They carry them everywhere.”“Whatever for?”“To connect with each other. Send messages and trade pictures and videos and...shit.”Raphael did his baleful eye thing again. Michael shrugged.“Hmph.” Raphael waved a hand. “Humans would be far better served by casting off their...what did you call them?”“Smart phones.”“Humans would be far better served casting off their smart phones and speaking directly to Heaven.”“I’m sure that would be ideal,” Michael hedged, “but I can tell you it’s not likely to happen this millennium. The next millennium looks doubtful, too. From what I’ve seen, humans aren’t all that interested in celestial matters. Sin consumes them. It’s really very interesting—”“I sent you to Earth to fight sin,” Raphael said tightly. “Not to wallow in it.”“I have to know my audience,” Michael protested. “Humans are very emotional. They’ll fight about anything. Power, money, parking spaces—you name it! And if they’re not fighting, they’re fu—”“Stop! I’m thinking you’ve come to know your audience far too well.” Raphael looked Michael up and down. “And what in Heaven’s name are you wearing? Where are your celestial robes?”Gone. Michael found denim pants to be surprisingly comfortable. He’d shrunk his righteous sword down to a deadly six-inch switchblade, now hidden in his sleeve. He was equally pleased with his Doc Martens and the frogged military jacket he’d picked up in a vintage shop in SoHo. “You don’t have a problem with Gabe’s Earth garb,” he said. “What’s wrong with mine?”“You’re wearing black!” Raphael exclaimed. “What kind of self-respecting angel wears black? And hides his wings?”“One that’s undercover,” Michael said testily.Gabriel tittered behind his hand. Raphael shot him a glare. Gabe sniffed and turned his head.“Undercover is one thing,” Raphael said, “but dignity must be preserved.”“I don’t see why.”Raphael gave a flap of his golden wings. Robes fluttering behind him, he glided a circle around his brother. Touching down once more, he crossed his arms. “Disgusting garments. Get rid of them.”Like hell I will, Michael thought, and then flushed. Human obscenity concerning copulation and defecation were one thing. Invoking the underworld was perhaps going a bit too far. “Forget my clothes,” he said. “Don’t you want to hear my field report?” Raphael heaved a sigh. “Of course.” He waved a hand, swirling cloud mist into the form of a throne. His celestial buttocks settled upon it. “Proceed.”Michael rose and bowed.Raphael inclined his head in reply. “Have you located Cherub Fortunato?” “Regrettably, no. And believe me, I’ve looked all over.”“Odd.” Raphael’s shining brow creased. “I wonder where he might have gone. He’s definitely not up here.”“He’s probably just floating around Earth, oblivious. You have to admit, the little guy isn’t exactly the most intelligent of angels.”“Heaven knows that’s true! When the Almighty was giving out brains, Fortunato thought He said ‘pains,’ and made himself scarce.”Michael chuckled. “He’s as lucky as his name, though. And very soft-hearted. He’ll be fine.”Raphael contemplated a moment longer, then shook his head. “I suppose you’re right. Fortunato has always been a curious sort. He probably just got distracted. I expect he’ll turn up eventually.” He leaned back and steepled his fingers. “Very well. Continue. What sin did you find rampant in the human realm?”“The usual trouble in the Middle East—that’s a given. In other areas...let’s see. Your typical wars here and there, along with the expected number of refugees fleeing each conflict zone. Species extinction continues unabated. Greed and gluttony is on an upswing. Racism, sexism, and xenophobia holding steady. Murders and thefts are, surprisingly, slightly down. As for illicit sexual congress—” Raphael held up a hand. “Please. No details.”Michael shrugged. “In that case, I guess that’s about—oh wait! There was one other thing.”“Yes?”“It’s not really about sin, per se. It concerns the Nephilim.”Raphael snorted. “If those abominable left-handed demons are involved, you can be sure it’s a sin. What evil are they up to now?”“The Druid clan, descendants of the Watcher Samyaza, has a new adept. A male. He emerged from his Ordeal two days ago.”“What do I care about that? Nephil dormants become adept with regrettable regularity.”“Not like this, they don’t.”“What do you mean?”“This particular Nephil went rogue,” Michael said. “Defied his alpha, abandoned his clan, and entered his Ordeal alone. No guide, no mentor, not one scrap of assistance. And yet he survived.”Raphael waved a dismissive hand. “So he’s insane now. Nothing need be done about it. He won’t last long enough to become a problem.”“Well, that’s just it. He’s not insane. At least, not fully. He emerged from his Ordeal with his mind mostly intact. His demon powers are rapidly escalating. He can’t quite control them yet, but—” Michael shook his head. “It’s amazing, really. Arthur Camulus is—”Raphael’s chin jerked up. “What did you say?”“I said, the new adept is sane. Mostly.”“No, not that part. The other. His name. What is his name?”Michael regarded his brother quizzically. “I told you. It’s Arthur Camulus, Nephil of the Druid clan. Descendant of Samyaza, leader of the fallen Watcher angels.”Raphael jumped to his feet and paced, golden robes swirling about his ankles like a small tornado. What the—? Michael had never seen his brother so agitated. He shot a questioning look at Gabriel. Gabe raised a hand, palm up, and made a face. “It cannot be,” Raphael muttered. “Cannot be, I tell you! Arthur Camulus is dead. He died as a boy of twelve. Seven years ago.”“You are...misinformed,” Michael said carefully. “I assure you, Arthur is very much alive.”Raphael whipped around to face him. “Even if he were alive, he’s not yet of age. He’d be only nineteen. A full year short of attempting his Ordeal with any hope of survival.”“I’m not sure of Arthur’s age.” Michael’s eyes tracked his brother’s progress to the edge of the cloud and back again. “I only know he was living with the American branch of the Druid clan. In Texas, of all places. I gather he took exception to his clan’s alpha.” He gave a grunt of distaste. “Mab. A nasty piece of work. I can see why he rejected her as his guide—she enslaves every dormant she brings out of the Ordeal. Anyway, some two weeks ago Arthur snuck out of the Texas homestead and ingested a dose of cocaine that should’ve killed him. He got as close to death as possible without actually crossing over.” Raphael resumed his chase to the end of the cloud. “Arthur survived his near-death-seeking only two weeks ago? It should have been months before his Ordeal came upon him.”Michael was getting dizzy, watching his brother’s frantic pacing. “In the traditional scheme of things, yes, a Nephil Ordeal usually comes two to three months after the subject’s near-death. But I gather cocaine speeds up the process. If the dormant survives, the crisis arrives almost immediately. Some idiosyncrasy of Nephil physiology, apparently.”“Disturbing. Very disturbing. When did Arthur emerge?”“Thirty-two hours ago.”Raphael passed a hand over his eyes. “Go back to Earth. Immediately. Keep an eye on him. Arthur Camulus, a Nephil adept!” He shook his head. “Blessed God in Heaven.”“I don’t understand.” Michael looked from Raphael to Gabriel. “Who is Arthur Camulus?” Gabriel slid off his patch of mist and onto his feet. “Yes. Who is he?”A pained expression crossed Raphael’s countenance. “It’s not who Arthur is, precisely. It’s who his ancestor was.”“All right,” Michael said slowly. “I’ll bite. Who was Arthur’s ancestor?”“Merlin.” “Merlin the Sorcerer?” Gabriel said with some surprise. “Camelot and all that?”“Yes.” “So?” asked Michael.“So,” Raphael replied tightly, “Merlin the Sorcerer was the most powerful Nephil ever to walk the Earth. If Arthur Camulus is alive, he’s Merlin’s only living direct descendant. He’s heir to Merlin’s memories and magic. Magic, I might add, that Merlin gained by surviving his own Ordeal unguided.” Raphael pinched the bridge of his nose. “And now, if Arthur has done the same...”“So what if he has?” Michael asked. “It’s not the end of the world or anything. Nephilim have no souls. Their existence is finite. Wait a century or so, and Arthur will be in Oblivion.”“It’s the damage he could do before he dies that I’m worried about,” Raphael said. “You want to talk about the end of the world? Back when Merlin was alive, he managed to push humanity this close—” He pinched a bare inch of air between his thumb and forefinger. “—to destruction. Utter and complete destruction.”What? If the world had once been in danger of ending, this was the first Michael was hearing about it. “When was this, exactly?”“Thirteen hundred years ago.”“I don’t remember a crisis of that proportion during that time period.”Gabriel approached, eyeing his eldest brother curiously. “Neither do I.”Raphael’s eyes slid away. “Yes, well. You two didn’t know about it. I didn’t choose to inform you. I handled it alone.” He cleared his throat. “As thoroughly as I could, anyway.”“What’s that supposed to mean?” Michael asked.“It means I acted to ensure the world’s continued survival, all right?” Raphael dragged a hand through his golden curls. “I thought the issue was over and done with.”Gabriel’s brows rose. “Hardly. We all know how the Almighty has set up the universe. No solution is unassailable.”“The Loophole Edict,” Michael said.  “Yes. Exactly. The Loophole Edict.” Gabriel’s expression turned uncharacteristically serious. “Nothing is certain. Possibilities always exist. No matter how sure a thing seems, or how impossible, there’s always a way to do it. Or undo it, as the case may be.”“Exactly.” Raphael sank down on his throne. “This young heir of Merlin could easily overreach himself, just as his ancestor did, and undo all my hard work. In fact, given the magnitude of the power Arthur now has within reach, it’s more than likely he’ll misuse his magic. Or worse, lose control of it completely.”“And if he does—” Gabriel tucked his walking stick under one arm and flicked all ten fingers outward, like a bursting star. “Kablooie.”Michael regarded Raphael uneasily. He’d never seen his overconfident elder brother so troubled. “If you’re that worried, maybe we should wake the Almighty and seek His guidance.”“No.” Raphael’s head jerked up. “No, no, and no! I forbid it. Two thousand years ago, before the Almighty went down for a well-deserved nap, He gave me two simple commandments.” He counted them off on his fingers. “One—don’t disturb him. Two—the Apocalypse is not, under any circumstances, supposed to happen until He wakes up.” He shuddered. “If I have to wake Him early, Heaven help me.”There was a brief moment of silence while Michael and Gabriel absorbed this information.“Then...what are we going to do?” Gabriel ventured.“I don’t know yet,” Raphael said. “But I swear to you both by Heaven’s holy gate, I will come up with a plan.”Somehow, Michael wasn’t reassured.

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Who is Arthur Camulus? TNEFA Chapter 1

 THE NEPHILIM: BOOK ONE

The Night Everything Fell ApartChapter OneArthur Camulus couldn’t say it felt good to be back in England. To be honest, it felt like crap. And wasn’t that bloody ironic? He’d spent years plotting his return. At least, he thought he had.Why was he here? He couldn’t remember. His brain was that fucked up. It’d been hours, or days, or maybe even weeks, since he’d emerged from his Ordeal. Heat consumed his body; every nerve ending was ablaze. Opal lights moved under his skin. Stray sparks shot from his fingertips. He swiped his tongue across the roof of his mouth. His spit tasted of metal. He stunk of sweat and worse. If he were to look down, at his bare chest, he’d see blood.  Not his own blood. That much, he was certain of. The first time his body had changed, the pain had been nearly unendurable. The second shift had been easier. His flesh was adjusting to its new condition. His mind? Fried. Horrors flashed behind his eyes. Shouts rang in his ears. The magic was his and yet it wasn’t. He couldn’t call it with any consistency or direct it once it responded. He needed help.The night was heavy with fog. How long until dawn? Hard to tell. Clouds obscured moon and stars. Night mist soaked his skin. Moorland, mottled with shadows, peeked through the haze below. To his newly-gained night vision, everything appeared strangely rendered in shades of gray and green.It was difficult to keep steady long enough to orient himself. His wings were more awkward than he’d anticipated. Right and left refused to cooperate. Flight was dodgy. The site was the highest point for miles around. Even so, he only just managed to see past its protective wardings. He landed inelegantly, in a neglected garden. Here, the fog was thinner, sound muted. The old manor rose like a ghost, its windows like so many vacant eyes. He tilted his head and knew a rush of relief. There might be gaps—vast gaps—in the quagmire of his memory, but this place, at least, occupied solid ground. Tŷ’r Cythraul. House of the Demon. He willed his wings to melt into his back. Surprisingly, they obeyed. The lights under his skin faded. Breath hissed between his teeth as his body relaxed into human form.His childhood home was an unassuming structure. Square and stolid, with a gray stone face. Four rooms below, five above. The attic, one large space under a steeply sloping roof, had once been Arthur’s domain. His life here had been happy until that last, horrific night.The front door—solid oak, polished to a high sheen—simultaneously beckoned and repulsed. Reluctant to face it, he pivoted, taking in the garden and its encircling stone wall, where his mother, in all her varied moods, had spent hours tending her plants. Now weeds overran the paths, feral herbs wrestled with gangly shrubs, and saplings choked the well pump. Only the oak was unchanged. Its trunk, so massive that three men with outstretched arms could not have encircled it, stood near one corner of the house. Moss-covered roots spread out around the base like a treacherous welcome mat. Branches stretched over the roof, the tips scratching the slates. I’ve come for the oak. With sudden clarity, the memory of it burst upon him.Funny thing about memories. When they weren’t your own, they had no context. Bits and pieces of his ancestors’ lives churned about in Arthur’s skull, like so much tornado-tossed debris. So many events, so many images. So many lost emotions. A thousand films playing at once, reeling past too quickly to absorb. A dull ache pounded his forehead. He bowed his head and pressed his fingertips against it. The oak, he reminded himself. The oak. What the bloody hell was he supposed to remember about the oak?Violent as lightning, one memory, one single lucid thought, flashed through his brain. He sucked in air. His eyes flew open. A morass of emotions—clawing, sucking, sickening—swamped him. He stumbled toward the oak and laid his left hand on its trunk. He inhaled sharply. Power leapt like a rabid dog. No! Too much, too strong: he couldn’t control it. The magic savaged his brain, mauled his skull. Lifted his mind from his body. Desperately, he focused on the wood under his palm. He couldn’t fail in this. He would not.He swept his hand downward. The bark warmed. The ancient wood went soft. His fingers sank into it. Something slipped into his hand. He pulled the object out of the wood. Several seconds passed as he gathered the courage to look at it. When at last he did, he knew. Who he was. What he was. Arthur Camulus. Human. Demon. Nephil.And he knew one more thing: he was in deep, deep shit.
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Demons Among Us

THE NEPHILIM: BOOK ONE
  Who are the Nephilim?Fantasy fiction often begins with a bit of mythology or legend. This is very true of new paranormal series, The Nephilim. Book One of the series, The Night Everything Fell Apart, arrives October 4.
Some readers may have already encountered some twist on the legend of the Nephilim in books and TV. For example, there’s an episode of the X-Files devoted to the Nephilim. Other readers may not have heard of them at all. Who or what are they? Where did the legend originate?
The Nephilim are said to be a hybrid human/demon race. They’re descendants of a group of angels known as Watchers, who were cursed by Heaven after they knocked up some human women. The Nephilim are mentioned very briefly in the Bible: 
"When men began to multiply on the Earth and daughters were born to them, the Sons of Heaven saw how beautiful the Daughters of Man were, and so they took for their wives as many of them as they chose. At that time the Nephilim appeared on earth after the Sons of Heaven knew the Daughters of Men, who bore them sons."  Genesis 6:1-4An ancient text known as the Book of Enoch reveals more history of the Watchers and the Nephilim. For some unfathomable reason (because when does stuff like this ever work out?), two hundred Watcher angels were sent to Earth and allowed to assume bodies of flesh. This sounds great, but of course there was a catch: no interaction (read: S-E-X with the Daughters of Men—God’s version of the Prime Directive, maybe?).
Of course, the whole experiment didn’t work out. Human women turned out to be just too pretty to resist. One Watcher angel called Azazel decided to revise the original program. He got all the other Watchers to go along with him:
The sons of Heaven said to one another: Come let us chose wives among the children of men. So the Watchers took wives, teaching them sorcery, incantations, astronomy, and the dividing of roots. And the women conceived and brought forth the Nephilim, born of spirit and of flesh.  From the Book of Enoch
One catch: apparently hybrid human/divine children are a tad bit unstable.
The children of the Watchers became evil spirits upon earth, turning against men in order to devour them, to eat their flesh, and to drink their blood. The Nephilim, who have been born of spirit and of flesh, shall be called evil spirits upon Earth.  From the Book of Enoch
Oh, crap. Damage control time! Heaven banishes the Watchers and sends a Flood is sent to exterminate their demon kids. This solution didn’t quite do the trick—some Nephilim escaped the flood. As a backup punishment, the survivors and their descendants were cursed. They’re doomed to fight among themselves while alive and experience no afterlife after death.
Bind Azazel hand and foot; cast him into darkness; and opening the desert which is in Dudael, cast him in there. Incite the offspring of the Watchers one against the other. Let the Nephilim perish by mutual slaughter. Upon the death of the Nephilim, wheresoever their spirits depart from their bodies, let their flesh be without judgement. Thus shall they perish.   From the Book of Enoch
Legend tells us the Nephilim scattered across the Earth and settled among early humans. Because of the divine knowledge taught to them by their fathers, they became the shamans and sorcerers of various ancient cultures. They married and had children who—outwardly, at least—became indistinguishable from humans. But—so the legend goes—their forbidden magic was passed down through generations.
Perhaps the descendants of the original Nephilim walk among us to this day.

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What's funny about social injustice?

This GISHWHES task seemed simple but turned out to be my hardest one:#91 Find a little-known, but widely problematic social injustice and come up with a funny analogy for it. Use Photoshop to create an illustration of the analogy. The more ridiculous the better. Bonus points if John Oliver appears in your Photoshopped image. Tweet the image and a brief explanation of the problem to @iamjohnoliver and @gishwhes. Submit a screenshot of your tweet.
 
I was floundering around for an idea that wouldn't be completely inappropriate--I mean, what's funny about social injustice?? Nothing!! I happened to read an article about a female judge in Kentucky who was appalled when a woman came into her courtroom with no pants, because she couldn't obtain feminine sanitary products in jail. Ugh!! I can't even imagine. I did a little research and found out that this is a disgustingly common problem, one that is actually exploited for profit by for-profit prisons, who, just because they can, will charge high prices for these basic female necessities to women who clearly can't afford even the regular prices. 
I eventually I came up with this, my final GISHWHES submission. Maybe John Oliver will tackle this issue on his show:  And that's all for this year's hunt! I'm already looking forward GISHWHES 2017!!

GISHWHES murder and mayhem

Another GISHWHES 2016 favorite! Anyone who's met Nixie, my Carolina Dog rescue, knows that she would definitely put out a heavy metal album if she could. The picture below is an actual dead mouse in my actual grass killed by my actual dog with the actual fangs showing in that picture of her. A shout out to my daughter for her Photoshop skills.

Task #119 Your pet has just released their first, much anticipated, heavy metal rock album. Show us the cover.

Playing with my food!!

This creative GISHWHES task was one of my favorites! I used french fries, Doritos, potato chips, popcorn, and black Twizzlers. And I got to eat the evidence once I was done.



 Task #47 Submit two images, side-by-side. Recreate a famous, iconic photo from junk food. For example, you could submit the black and white photo of Einstein sticking out his tongue, next to another photo of your best attempt to recreate that photo using various junk foods as your paints.