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Only minutes later, a man pulls out his earbuds and walks up to the podium, a camera casting his image onto a large screen behind him. He looks to be in his early to mid-thirties. Handsome. I glance over at Phoenix and see her watching the screen with rapt, excited attention.
“That’s Professor Rossi,” she whispers. “He’s at the top of his field and one of the reasons I was so thrilled to study here with him as my advisor. Well,” she rolls her eyes, “Vlad did tempt him here with a huge endowment, but for once, I wasn’t mad about letting his money and influence actually work for me. Professor Rossi is an absolute genius in the field.”
There’s an odd curdling in my gut as she gushes over this man.
But then she waves at me to shush as Professor Rossi leans over the lectern to speak, even though she’s the one who’s been talking.
“Signs and wonders used to be a regular part of daily life. It’s easy to write off these historical descriptions in the ancient texts as people without scientific explanations simply describing natural phenomena.”
He clicks through the slides reflected on a screen behind him to show a demonic mask. “So-called “demons” were merely people with schizophrenia. Sudden storms or volcanos weren’t manifestations of the gods’ anger; they were simply warmer ocean waters and the moving of tectonic plates.” He clicks through to another slide that shows how the flow of warmer ocean waters evaporates to become hurricanes. “But while yes, our ancient forefathers might have had only a proto-understanding of certain scientific phenomena, in other ways, their understanding of mathematics and physics was far more advanced than we give them credit for.”
“These are the people who built the great pyramids and the Parthenon!” The screen flashes with slides showing images of the building he describes before coming back to his face. The professor speaks with such passion that it’s easy to see why his audience is enrapt.
“They might not have cracked germ theory at the time, for which many in our modern age judge them as barbarians, but they still had an astonishing ability to thrive, invent, nurture artistic talent, and create vast civilizations with astounding communication networks.”
Beside me, Phoenix scribbles notes furiously in her notebook. “Since Freud and Jung, it’s been commonly accepted among the scientifically minded that religions were created as mere manifestations of mankind’s neurosis or shadow selves. Or, to put it in the framework of Marx, religion was merely an opiate of the people meant to keep the masses drugged and unaware of the fact that they were pawns in the machine of the more powerful.
“The thesis I present to you today, however, especially in light of the supposed hoax,” he uses air quotes for the last word, “that we all collectively witnessed with our own eyes this past month, is that some of the signs and wonders our ancient brethren witnessed were real.”
I sit up straighter in my chair and realize that I’m not the only one reacting. Some of the other professors in the room stand up and heckle him for buying into conspiracy theories. Just as many students stand up in his defense.
Finally, Professor Rossi holds his hands up, and the shouting dies down. “Is this not a university where we gather to discuss new ideas and theses?” he asks. Students eagerly nod, along with some professors. Others stare stonily ahead.
Professor Rossi leans forward, clutching the sides of the lectern as he continues, his voice intimate as he speaks into the microphone. “There were ancient powers that occasionally visited or even inhabited this world for a time during the ancient era. Ladies and gentlemen, I am suggesting that ancient man did not invent the gods but merely documented their presence among us with papyrus and ink. Just like we’re doing now capturing video on our phones of the phenomena we’re witnessing now all around us as these unknown beings visit again.”
This time, when the crowd erupts, there is no bringing back order. Factions shout and argue all around the room, and Professor Rossi has to be shuffled off the stage.
“Come on,” Phoenix whispers excitedly, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward an exit off to the side, away from the chaos. “I want you to meet him.”
Frowning, I follow her. I can’t think of anything I want less.
Chapter Six
PHEONIX
10 Years Ago
Layden stays in bed for several days, shivering underneath the covers even though there’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He doesn’t seem to have a fever, though, and every time I try to talk to him, he just shakes his head and turns away. It’s as if, after so long alone, the concept of human interaction and even a warm, soft bed is too much for his mind and body.
The one thing he will accept, however, is food. I spend the days chopping up vegetables and making soup. Funny since, at home, I usually rebel against anything that overly feminizes me or that I consider woman’s work. In a compound full of kinsmen who are older than me, I fought from the beginning not to be the one left to do the housekeeping. And I’d certainly always refused to be involved in any sort of food acquisition for my family. I shudder even at the thought.
They all took care of themselves well before I got there, and nothing needed to change, even though the more cavemen-like of my “uncles” sometimes disagreed and tried to push things with me. Compulsion came in handy, and when a couple of them figured out how to fight back against my mind control, it came to proving myself in all-out combat with them. Men with hundreds of pounds on me.
But my might had never come from bulk, and I had more tricks up my sleeve than just the compulsion.
“Here,” I say, perching on Layden’s bed on day four with some fresh potato, carrot, and onion soup.
He’s facing the window, back to me, as he stirs. The stubs of the wings on his back are only small lumps against the heavy blankets as he turns over, and I wonder if they’re what makes him wince slightly as they brush against the mattress.
“Are you okay? Does it hurt?” I ask automatically, but my questions make his expression shut down even more. Unlike the first day, his eyes stay down and averted from mine.
He shies away from my touch when he struggles to sit up, and I try to help by stuffing another pillow behind him. “Don’t spill the soup,” he says.
“He speaks!” I crow, letting go of the pillow when he grabs it and rearranges it himself. At least he’s showing a little more life today than he has the past few days. When he’s settled in, I hold up a spoonful of broth to his mouth.
He refuses to open, and finally, his eyes lift to mine. I try not to pull back or react in any way, even though my stomach swoops physically at the sudden, powerful eye contact.
“Give it to me; I can feed myself. I’m strong enough.”
