The PowWow

The Genesis Machine isn't going to happen. I found it's not my style, even though it's a good idea. So, being a writer that enjoys noir and supernatural, May I introduce the starting chapter of "The Brothers Nephilim"

Detective Marco Espinoza inched forward, his weapon steady, trained into the dark.

Training—when you trusted it—didn’t fail you. People did.

Across the alley, Detective Alicia Reddings mirrored him step for step, her silhouette cutting through the thin mist that clung to the ground.

Rainwater slicked the pavement, turning the streetlights into broken reflections beneath their feet. Steam curled up in slow, ghostlike strands—the day’s heat bleeding out of the asphalt.

Marco scanned ahead, slow and deliberate.

Uniforms had called them in—urgent, no details. That alone was wrong. Patrol didn’t spook easy.

Then they’d arrived.

Two officers down.

Both lay crumpled in the street beside their squad car, rain pooling around them, uniforms soaked dark. No movement. No breath.

The cruiser looked worse.

The front end was crushed inward like it had kissed a telephone pole at speed—but there was no pole. No impact point. Just metal folded in on itself. The rest of the car looked like it had been hit. Repeatedly. Every window blown out. Glass scattered across the street like glittering gravel.

Marco had seen bad scenes before.

This wasn’t bad.

This was… wrong.

He and Alicia had drawn immediately, following the only thing that made sense—footprints leading away from the bodies.

Not shoe prints.

Footprints.

Bare.

Each one pressed into the thin film of water in the street, some smeared with blood.

Marco swallowed that thought and kept moving.

The alley swallowed them quickly. Light thinned. Sound died.

Spooky.

Alicia’s word, not his.

Marco pushed it down. Two of ours are dead. Focus.

Where was this guy?

There wouldn’t be much in the way of arrest procedure when they found him. Not tonight. Not after this.

Two of ours.

Marco tightened his grip.

The door appeared ahead—half-hidden in shadow, hanging slightly open. One clear print marked the step just outside.

Bare.

He slowed.

The hell kind of perp walks barefoot through glass?

Marco reached the door, hand settling on the handle. He leaned in just enough to catch Alicia’s eye.

A nod.

She returned it.

Marco yanked the door open.

Alicia moved first—fluid, practiced—weapon up, clearing into the darkness.

Marco followed tight behind.

Inside, the dark wasn’t just absence of light.

It was thick. Heavy.

Marco’s eyes strained, trying to shape something out of nothing.

Then—

Movement.

Too fast.

A wet, meaty crack split the silence.

Alicia dropped.

Not stumbled—dropped. Like something had simply removed her from standing.

Marco swung toward it on instinct and fired—three sharp bursts into the dark.

The muzzle flashes lit nothing but air.

Then something hit him.

Hard.

His temple exploded in white light. The world tilted, slid sideways. His knees buckled before he even felt them give.

The floor rushed up.

His weapon slipped from his grip.

Sound stretched, warped—like he was underwater.

A low chuckle threaded through the darkness.

Close.

Too close.

Marco tried to focus, to orient—find the gun, find Alicia, find anything—but his thoughts were slipping, dissolving.

Where am I?

Who—

Darkness closed in, deeper than the room around him.

It swallowed everything.

Something moved.

A shape detached itself from the black and stepped forward, just enough to catch the faint spill of streetlight from the open door.

He was enormous.

Broad shoulders. Thick arms. A frame that filled the space without effort.

An expensive suit clung to him—tailored, precise.

His feet were bare.

He looked down at Alicia.

“And they came to earth…” he said softly, voice smooth, almost conversational.

“…and found the women beautiful.”

He bent, one massive hand gripping the front of Alicia’s shirt, lifting her as easily as if she weighed nothing. Her body hung limp, boots swaying inches above the floor.

“So they took them…” he continued, almost amused now,

“…as wives.”

He shifted her over his shoulder in a single motion, settling her into a fireman’s carry without the slightest strain.

Then he turned his head back toward Marco.

And smiled.

A low chuckle followed him into the dark.

CHAPTER ONE: Brothers in Arms

“I’m telling you, Jacob… I think this might be the one.”

I pushed through the outer doors of the morgue, the smell of antiseptic and something colder hitting me immediately.

Jacob’s lip twitched. That was his version of a smile.

“Let me guess,” he said. “She’s gorgeous, funny, and very… generous with her attention.”

I frowned at him. “That’s mean. Even for you. Actually—especially for you.”

“Still true,” Jacob rumbled.

And I say rumbled because Jacob doesn’t really talk so much as… resonate.

The man is not small.

Half a foot north of six feet, built like the Lord decided subtlety was overrated. Broad shoulders, thick arms—the kind of frame that makes doorways feel optional. He worked out, sure… but some of it was just given.

Meanwhile, I got height. Some of it. No width to speak of. If Jacob was carved out of stone, I was whatever was left in the chisel.

“Not the point,” I snapped, a little louder than I meant to. “She is gorgeous. And—”

I stopped mid-stride. Closed my eyes.

…yeah.

I hate it when he’s right.

I exhaled, opened my eyes, and kept walking. Jacob shrugged beside me, like a mountain deciding not to be offended.

“Shut up,” I muttered.

We reached the medical examiner’s door. I reached for the handle—

—and Jacob caught my wrist.

Not hard. Just enough.

I glanced at him.

He shook his head slightly.

“Politeness costs nothing,” he said.

I sighed. “You are the worst wingman in history.”

He ignored that and knocked. Three solid, measured raps.

We waited.

The door opened a few inches.

Then a little more.

A small woman stood there—tiny—and for a second I thought I had the wrong room.

She looked at me.

Then up.

Then… up further.

Yeah. That tracks.

She couldn’t have been more than five feet tall. Red hair piled loosely on her head in a bundle that had clearly given up halfway through the day, strands escaping in every direction like they had somewhere better to be.

Her eyes were sharp, though. Not surprised. Not intimidated.

Just… assessing.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

I smiled—smooth, practiced—ready to deliver something charming enough to justify our presence.

Her gaze slid right past me.

Locked on Jacob.

Of course it did.

Something in my chest deflated just a little.

“We’re here about last night,” I said, adjusting course. “Two officers. Jeremiah Yaats should’ve called ahead.”

Her eyes snapped back to me. Fast. Focused.

That got her attention.

“Come in,” she said, pulling the door open the rest of the way.

I stepped inside. Behind me, Jacob turned sideways to clear the frame.

At least he could have the decency to look like a normal human being once in a while.

“You’re late,” she said.

I blinked. “That’s not usually how that greeting goes.”

“They’ve been here for forty-three minutes,” she replied, already turning away. “I don’t like unanswered questions sitting on my table that long.”

Jacob moved first.

I followed.

The room beyond was bright, sterile, humming softly with overhead lights and quiet machinery.

Three covered forms lay on stainless steel tables.

Another table sat empty.

Waiting.

I glanced at Jacob.

He was already looking at the bodies.

Still. Focused.

Jacob filled a room, even when silent. He just…was.

I turned back to the doctor.

“And you are…?” I asked.

She pulled on a pair of gloves, snapping them into place with efficient precision.

“Dr. Naomi Ruth,” she said. “And before you ask—no, this isn’t normal.”

I tilted my head. “You say that like we were going to argue.”

She gave me a look. Not annoyed.

Measured.

“You’d be surprised what people try to explain away,” she said.

Then she nodded toward the nearest table.

“Explanations would be welcome.”

I glanced at Jacob again.

He hadn’t moved.

Hadn’t spoken.

Just stared at the sheet-covered form like he already knew something I didn’t.

I sighed under my breath.

“Yeah,” I muttered.

“This one’s different.” Let me know what you think, and feel free to ask questions if you have them.