Nephilim's Captive - Abby Knox Page 0,2

annihilation. They not only survived, but they also rebuilt. They preserved all the knowledge and everything the Watchers had begun to teach to the humans, such as science, art, music, necromancy, astrology, crafts, weapons of war, and self-defense.

But they did not forget what the archangels did in front of their own eyes.

Nor did they forgive.

Chapter One

Ada

The monster’s glowing eyes peered up from underneath the river bridge, waiting for the right moment to snatch the perfect snack.

Whoever painted the face on the statue had a dark sense of humor, Ada thought as she tightened her grip on her rental car’s steering wheel. It was even creepier in person than the one she’d seen on the billboard a few miles back when she’d crossed the state line.

Good gravy, she hated crossing bridges over water as it was. Now she had to do it while trying to avoid looking into this set of wild, inanimate eyeballs. It was a jarring welcome to something as quaintly named as the Appalachian Folklore Festival.

When the organizers had contacted her, they had promised her a charming summer arts event for tourists, historians, crafters, artists, supernatural creature hunters, and sci-fi fans, located in the bosom of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

It was Ada’s business to know about this kind of convention. As a paranormal investigator, she liked to find out what everyday people thought they knew about the weirder, darker side of the world. This event in particular had grown over the years from a weekend bazaar to a full week of geekery, providing the town’s biggest source of summer income.

The hulking monster came into view even more clearly as her rental car cleared the bridge and began its descent on the exit ramp. The location of that mascot—the Bell Mountain Giant—could not be an accident. The statue stood on the outcropping of rocks that peeked out from the dense forest south of the town of Eden. Based on Ada’s research, that was the spot where many townsfolk had drowned all at once over one hundred years ago. She cringed at the idea that someone decided a lurid statue would be a great way to mark the spot of the drownings — drownings that supposedly coincided with an increase in giant sightings. On the other hand, who was she to judge? A shared trauma for the town, to be sure, but she remembered what her career mentor had said to her once: “Everyone gets to tell their own story in their own way.”

The townsfolk might think supernatural events and sightings of giants in the woods were the only things it had going for their town, but Ada disagreed. Natural beauty was all around. Rolling hills, dense woods, and the wide river made this one of the prettiest spots in her travels around the country as part of her job. Something about it made her wish she could stay and explore for more than a day. The deeper she drove into the valley on her approach to the town, the more she felt a strange, calm alertness overtake her.

Maybe southern hospitality was literally in the air.

Ada had felt the same indefinable tug when she was still onboard the plane two hours ago, as she’d flown over these mountains. The ridges and folds down below had looked like a familiar cozy blanket.

“Welcome to Eden, Bigfoot Capital of the Blue Ridge Mountains.” The sign at the entrance to the town displayed the motto and a logo of a large cartoon footprint. The kitschiness of it jolted Ada’s thoughts away from the beauty of the surrounding nature, and, a little farther down the road, all the trappings of the festival assaulted her senses. Temporary directional signage pointed visitors to points of interest, a Ferris wheel towered over the horizon, and the aroma of funnel cakes seeped into her car. Who was she to protest against funnel cakes and Ferris wheels in honor of unexplained mysteries? After all, she was here voluntarily, wasn’t she? Nobody had kidnapped her and forced her to be a featured speaker on a panel discussion for the creature hunter nerds.

The quaint downtown area featured rows of historic brick and stone buildings, a dormant mill on the north end looming over it all. The hulking brick smokestack dominated the town’s skyline, along with the usual church steeples that inhabit every street and backroad in the Bible Belt.

Carnival food vendors were crammed into a lively pedestrian area named Riverfront Park, less than a quarter-mile downriver from the infamous tragic site at