BLOOD OF THE GODS

BLOOD OF THE GODS tells the story of a mostly mortal girl who stands between the new generation of godchildren and their ultimate goal, the power of creation.


Unbeknownst to nineteen-year-old Julia Jane, she comes from a clandestine line of Theohaima (mortals with a drop of godly blood). Theohaima cannot be controlled by godly influence and thus are the only mortals that can truly choose to love (agape) the gods. The four-thousand-year-old godchildren of light, whom are living on earth attempting to prove their worth to their creators, have no idea why they cannot gain their ultimate goal: ktisis (the power to create new worlds), until they meet Julia, bond with her, and experience the responsibility and vulnerability that truly defines being a god. Julia discovers the unexpected in this journey as well. She finds trust despite her troubled past, love in spite of only believing in lust, and strength to fight her inner demons (and some outer ones too). However, the godchildren of darkness also discover a way of gaining ktisis: by capturing and draining Theohaima of their godly blood. What none of the godchildren know is how much they need one another and the Theohaima in order to transcend into Elder gods capable of creating new worlds.

The following work is Copyrighted by Theresa Pocock 2020


Chapter 1

Julia: The Coffee Hut

A tiny bit of white caramel-infused foam splashes onto my thumb as I snap the lid on bleary-eyed Karen’s daily caramel macchiato. The timing of this daily hand-off is vital, so I leave the foam there, and, gripping the metal frame of the drive-up window, carefully swing the cup into Karen’s greedy hands. As usual, she presses the straw between her lips and sucks so hard one would think we were on Mars and the tiny cup held oxygen.

One side of my mouth slides up and I shake my head indulgently as a pathetic glow of affection for this caffeine addict fills my chest. Karen has been with me the four years I’ve worked the Coffee Hut and my heart gives a little ache knowing I will be leaving her and all this familiarity behind.

I look out to the sparkling morning. The absolutely perfect purples and greens of the Timpanogos Mountains dominate my view and shrink the strip mall before me to comic proportions. The air is cool and there isn’t a hint of a breeze.

I take a deep breath and wait for Karen to suck the life out of the perfectly tempetured drink. I sigh but keep quiet as I wipe my thumb off.

Over the years Karen and I have developed an understanding. If I have her drink ready, and I don’t force her to talk to me, she leaves me a rather large tip.

It does feel a tiny bit like I’ve sold my soul to the green paper god when I do try to say something to her, because she glares and holds up the cash in a threatening manner which makes me shut my mouth. This exchange happens today. I want to tell her I’ll be leaving in just a few weeks, but with my tip on the chopping block, I don’t.

Once she is certain I won’t speak she furtively passes the cash through the window and speeds away.

It’s all rather shady. And I feel pretty terrible about it until I pocket the money that is mine. Once I’ve slipped the rest into the register, I move to the other side of the hut and watch Karen pull onto Federal.

Her Volvo moves from the lot, onto the street in a jerky, swerving motion and she almost t-bones a glossy silver car turning into the strip-mall.

My fingers automatically move to my lips, my body tensing for impact, but Karen narrowly evades the collision. Still feeling a bit uncertain that Karen will make it to the bottom of her coffee without killing someone, I yell out the window; “Hands on the wheel.” She can’t hear me, I know but I feel compelled to do something.

I watch as her car drunkenly jerks to the stop light and from here I can see she still has her mouth plastered to the straw. “Crazy woman.” I mutter.

Taking a few deep breaths, I wipe down the counter all the while shaking my head in disapproval. Chores done, and blood pressure calmed, I sit back on my stool, and examine my nails.

Polish needs an update.

I lean over to dig the bubble-mint polish out of my purse when I hear the tell-tell sound of an engine. I turn to see the posh looking car from the ‘almost accident’. The silver vehicle is shiny and all foreign looking. Way too fancy for this side of the tracks.

Moving to the window, I strain to see who sits behind the illegally tinted glass.

When it stops, the driver’s window descends barely an inch, so all I can see is the top of a blonde head.

“How can I help you?” I ask politely.

The woman is turned away from me, so I glance beyond her and wait. Across the parking lot a very tall woman, with straight black hair to her butt maneuvers around her bright red sports car. She plops herself on the trunk of her car and looks right at me. I narrow my eyes at her, confused by her direct stare.

“You wouldn’t happen to have Yerba Mate tea, would you?” A scratchy bass voice interrupts, as a pair of masculine sunglasses and a bold nose becomes visible through the window slit, which descends another inch.

My eyes snap back to my customer, my male customer. The mistaken gender takes me off guard. I stutter my answer.

“Uh, no, um… I don’t think so… but I’ll check.”

I know that we don’t, yet I feel compelled to turn away from the man and fumble around a bit.

As I do, goose bumps creep over my arms and I stop in the middle of my pretend searching to look at the funny little raised hairs. Swiping my hand down my arm, I open a rarely used cupboard and scan its contents. Goose bumps pop up again followed by a violent shiver running up my back.

I pull my hands away from the door and notice that they are shaking.

I stop and stare at them as if they are someone else’s hands. My mind completely disconnected from what my body is experiencing. Because my brain is still engaged, my internal clock tells me this is taking too long. The customer at the window will be annoyed with me if I don’t say something soon.

As I turn to the customer I feel a wave of dizzy nausea swirl in my middle. I reach for the counter, suddenly needing the support, and take a deep breath. My head dipping down.

When I open my eyes, I notice my purse. The soft pink vinyl splayed open exposing its contents. On top is my keychain with my emergency mace.

Suddenly, a concept from a pamphlet my guidance counselor forced me to read about fear and how human bodies react instinctually in dangerous situations, pops into my head.

I glance again over at the car, just as the male voice says, “Hello?”

I automatically answer. “Yes, uhm we don’t have it, I don’t think.” I call out to him and make an effort to shuffle around some more.

Is this somehow a dangerous situation? It is a weird leap to ask that question. But my somewhat clear mind attempts to remember what I should do if my subconscious is telling me I am in trouble.

However, my thoughts are dulled by a swimming sensation around my peripheral sight, followed by a rattling sound and then a solid movement in the corner of my eye. It catches my attention.

 It is a strange, bright purple canister. I blink at it. Not understanding its existence. I had just looked in that exact spot five seconds ago and not seen it. I know I hadn’t. I pick it up and read, Yerba Mate: tea of the gods, written in orange letters across the front.

A little stunned, I stand and realize with a weird jolt that all signs and symptoms instantly are alleviated. My hand is now steady as it goes to the back of my neck. I take a deep breath, reeling from the physical freak-out and move to the window in a slow, shocked, zombie-like shuffle.

Holding the canister, I look at the man completely uncertain of what is happening to me or around me.

“Well, is that it?” The man’s voice holds serious impatience.

Confusion colors my voice, “Yes, actually, it is.”

The man sits looking forward, as if he expected as much.

Then in the same aggravatingly, gravely, blasé way he says, “The water needs to be 160 degrees, and I’ll take milk and a bit of sugarcane, if you have it.”

With this longer sentence I feel the reoccurrence of the before mentioned unpleasantness. Hands trembling, shivers, goose bumps. It is such a strong reaction that I openly examine him—well, the bit I can see of him.

I wonder if he is dangerous or just—I don’t know—superhumanly annoying. Perhaps his voice is on the exact wrong frequency for my ears—like one of those whistles that torture dogs. In a brief moment, I reanalyze my reactions for fear or warning. I don’t really feel either, though I am still shaking.

He clears his throat and, though he doesn’t look at me, he does look at his watch. And by looking at his watch I mean he holds it up to his face like someone visually impaired would.

I don’t miss it.

I narrow my eyes and cock my head. When his actions don’t cause the desired reaction, he clears his throat again and taps expectantly on what I assume is his steering wheel.

I can’t help it, my foot begins to tap too as I cross my arms and I purse my lips. But the annoyance that is just beginning to gather in my chest is abruptly overshadow by a sudden and crushing throb in my head.

The tea canister hits the floor as my hands go to my head. My eyes close and a slow gathering scream begins in the back of my throat.

Within the space of an exhale I feel like I am outside myself. Blinking my eyes against the pain and light, I find myself moving, mechanically, through the hut.

Then, as suddenly as a faucet turning off, the pain ceases.

I blink and almost drop the cup I hold out the window to the impatient man.

“That will be two fifty,” My mouth moves but again it feels like I am a puppet and some string master is pulling on my lips and jaw, making them work, because I sure as heck am not consciously speaking.

I look at my hand holding the tea and know only two seconds have passed, but there I stand with brewed tea in hand.

The sound of the window descending pulls my head more fully out of the daze and my eyes toward the man. The stranger turns to me, his face unobstructed for the first time and I almost drop the tea—again.

Fumbling, I grip the cup between my now consciously controlled hands spilling a bit. That wakes me up. I look back into the stranger’s face. He isn’t a man man, he is my age perhaps a bit older, and he’s striking; full lips, strong jaw, blunt, angular nose, and of course long blond hair. His sunglasses obscure his eyes and I am glad they do.

However, before I have time to analyze how someone could be so…whatever he is, his money is on the counter, the tea is swept out of my shaky hand, and the silver car is thundering off.

I jerk my hand-off hand back toward me. It feels like an electric pulse just zapped it. I cradle it into my chest as I blink in rapid succession.

 Then out of nowhere, my head pain burst to the point of agony. Sitting down, I try to calm my breaths, which are coming in short, erratic huffs. A ringing starts in my ears and I clamp my hands over them. Agonizing moment after agonizing moment reverberates through me. It hits a peek of sharp and terrible torture but then I am a stone rolling down the summit, the agony stays where it is as I race away from it.

I close my eyes and try to gain some control.

It takes a few minutes, all the while the pain is backing off.

I start to feel a bit calmer. Except for one thing; the sound of that guy’s voice and the planes of his face seem to be seared into my mind.

Everywhere I look, I see him. Sort of like my eyes are scorched, but not by the sun, by him. 

Chapter 2

The Jane Household

After forever, the little clock in the Coffee Hut finally got its hour hand to three.

Quitin’ time. 

I coax my old Chevy the ten blocks to my house and hustle my butt up to my room to start southern belleafying myself for my performance at the Pristine Panorama Dinner Theater. I have been crushing on my co-worker, Sawyer, for months now and with the summer almost over and still no date, I am making special effort to look my best.

Unfortunately, images of Sawyer’s hotness are interrupt by an unwelcome sound from directly below me. My father’s office. Even though my mom, my sister and I are all at home, the slinky melodies of my father’s favorite porno begin to rise through the floor boards.

               I stamp loudly as I run the curling iron up the length of a small strip of dark brown hair.

Nothing.

So, three curls later I stamp again. This time the nasty crap gets louder. I put my iron down and take several deep, flared nostril breaths before turning toward the door.

               As I move, it opens and my little sister Emma marches into my room. Her hair, cut in a severe a-line, gyrates as she tenses up her whole body. Through clinch teeth she begins, “Jules I am going to…” her hands make a violent strangling motion which is perfectly communicative. Then she stomps quite fiercely to my bed and plops down.

               “I know,” I say and exhale deeply. “I’ll go take care of it.” My hand brushes hers as I pass her, and my foot kicks my empty laundry basket as I pass it.

I jog down the stairs, although my vision is still annoyingly blurry. I wonder if I had a stroke while at work today? Weren’t they supposed to impair vision? I decide to research signs and symptoms as soon as I can.  I hope I can find an explanation for the blurred vision and extreme headache.

However, I have another type of headache to deal with right now.

As I reach for the door handle of my father’s office—the groaning from inside reaching the scary point—I see my mom move to the head of the hall.

               I glance over at her. Her long brown hair is in a braid that curls attractively on the end. Her apron is dusty with flour and her hands ring the bottom of it apprehensively. Her thick eyebrows are in knots, weighing down her eyes. 

               My jaw tightens, and I settle my feet to push through the door, but my mother’s alto voice stops me.

“Don’t, Julia. You know what will happen if you stop him right now.”

               My teeth clench, “I don’t care!”

               “Just leave it,” she sighs and leans against the wall.

               My body shrinks an inch away from the door. Relief tingles my limbs as my breath relaxes. Fight mode is crowd out by another familiar feeling; disgust. What I feel for my father cakes me with a sickness that seems like an all-encompassing layer of dry mud. Such emotional filth, I can’t help feeling I will never be clean of. But my mother…I look back over at her and the mud is suddenly ribbon with inky fingerlets of tar, or contempt. 

               I see her defeated expression, her worry lines, and am mad again. “Tell him to stop mom.” But knowing she won’t, I turn to the door and yell at it. “We are right here; we can hear the swanky porno music and you wacking off to it. Have some dignity, save it for the middle of the night… save us all the…” My yelling has petered out knowing that its fruitless, I hear it in the middle of the night too, and…he’s cranked the TV up again.

 I place my head against the door, squeeze my eyes tight and really push my forehead into that door, wishing I could just press all the sounds and all the slime that is my father, out. But I can’t, this is how it has been since he lost his job. This is what he does.

 “You are so pathetic.” I whisper to the door. Then I turn angry eyes towards my mother, “You both are so pathetic.” I shake my head at her. “Why? Why do you put up with this?” I see the way her face crumples as she turns her eyes away from mine. “Just… never mind.” I spit, and I kick the door before spinning away from both of them.

My mother knows what she is. In similar situations as this one, I’ve used every possible descriptor to tell her my opinion and I’m exhausted.

               As I run upstairs, I hear my mother say, “You’re the strong one, Jules. Stay strong.”

               Oh, I will.

But now how am I going to distract Emma? That girl has the potential to take a shotgun to both my parents if I don’t calm her down.

I step into my room and Emma has a pillow held to each ear. She looks up at me and I shake my head. She rolls her eyes and sits up.

“You know I have ear plugs, in my nightstand.”

“No, I didn’t know that.” Pulling open the drawer she yanks two neon pink plugs out.

“He’s almost done.”

“I know, I have this song memorized.”

“Me too.”

“Can you believe this is our life?”

I narrow my eyes and flare my nostrils, choosing not to engage my rage. I also notice the time on the nightstand.

“I need to finish getting ready.”

“I wish I could come with you.”

“Me too. Can you go to Kenzies?”

“Nope they are having family night.”

“What would that be like?”

“I don’t think I’d like it. Unless dad wasn’t…”

“And mom wasn’t…”

She nods and rolls her eyes. “Do you think other kids have screw-up parents too?”

“Absolutely.”

“Really?”

“Ask around. That’s what I did when I was your age, and yep, everyone is eefed up.” I walk to her and slide my hand down her hair and pull her head to my side, hugging her.  We wait there, hugging until the music stops.

Then I clear my throat and ask, “Help me get ready? I wanna look awesome tonight.”

She smiles up at me and nods. “Are you going to get Sawyer to finally ask you out?”

“I’m going to give it my best.” As I head back to my dressing table I think of Sawyer. “Isn’t he fantastic.”

“Fantastically hot.”

“His buttery tenor voice…”

“And those super soft brown eyes.”

“His lips…”

“They are a little out of control…”

“And by that, you mean, should be illegal; deem too dangerous for normal human consumption.” I flip my hair.

“No, I mean they are too big, full, large.” Emma complains with scrunched nose.

“I disagree. They are like perfect pillows. I love kissing him.”

“So, have the kisses been getting longer.”

I smile. “Yes, last week the pianist had to do a little variation so that the singing wasn’t off.”

“Oh. My. heck Jules. Seriously? Doesn’t that embarrass you?”

I chit at her, “No way. You think I’m thinking about the audience’s comfort level when I have the two most perfect lips god ever made pressing against mine? Not a chance.”

She laughs and I am happy that the subject is back to normal stuff. Real stuff.

She picks up my eyeshadow brush and says, “Close ‘em.  I’m gonna make those velvety browns pop.”

I smile and close my eyes.