Key of Solomon: Relic Defender, Book 1 (8 page)

He lifted his hand skyward. On his third finger, a circle of pale gold shimmered. The clear scarlet center stone, cut with the five-lines of the pentalpha, caught utu-shamshi’s glow and reflected the light. This fragile band, with its single sigil, and the man’s faith, such that it remained, were the only protections he had against the malignant forces he called. He slipped the ring from his finger and, while he continued to chant, held the small oval before his face.

Without warning, shrieks and wails shattered the peace of the light-laden morning. A cacophony of noise throbbed through her head and was followed by a crackling, dry-reed sound, like that of thousand of locusts. Insubstantial shapes whirled and spun about her head, their forms little more than wispy shades, yet they held back utu-shamshi’s light. The sour odor of spoiled eggs came with them. The foul scent so strong she fought the urge to retch.

The man fell silent. Behind the silence, dread and uncertainty curled around her. Moisture pooled along her spine and traveled down the length of her back. Under her helm, long curls of hair stuck to clammy skin. Her gaze swung upward and focused on the man’s lifted hand. Brown-spotted and twisted fingers showed the marked signs of many seasons past. And trembled with the effort to constantly battle the powerful spirits he sought to imprison.

She shifted, impatience chasing away the doubt. It had to be now. Now, before the stability of the man’s once great mind failed along with his body. Before she could intervene, the man’s shoulders pulled back and stiffened. For a brief moment, the breeze subsided. Nothing moved. Even the insects that thirsted for human blood were frozen in mid-flight. The only sound was that of his labored breathing as he fought to command the spirits he’d summoned.

We offer enough wealth to fill the deepest water and a kingdom that stretches far into the desert. She jerked at the sly voices whispered into the man’s mind. How did she hear them? Beautiful women who will spread their legs at your command. Slaves to toil over your fields, in your house and in your temples.

Power and wisdom to rival your Lord.

We can give you all of this and more. All you have to do is let us go.

Beautus dei
, did he have the strength to resist? She curled her fingers into fists, her nails digging into her palms. The spirits tempted him with all that he desired. Traveling that path meant death and an eternity in the oppressive dark and coldness of the Abyss. If he gave in, all was lost. Yet, she could not take this on for him. This task was not for her.

As seconds stretched into minutes, she began to fear the spirits had won. Suddenly, he shook his head and sucked in a rasping breath. Shutting out the spirits’ offerings, he began again.

She heard the effect of his struggle in the roughness of his voice. Then she heard nothing except the roar that howled across the vast desert as notus, a great wind entity, captured the battling Fallen and whirled them into a violent funnel of energy. Sand kicked up and pelted her exposed skin. Pulling her cloak around her face, she shielded her flesh from the worst of the scouring. Despite the torment, she stood motionless even though every fiber of her soul wanted to run.

With the bound Fallen in its raging center, notus spun toward the bronze vessel where the force of the wind thrust the demons into the jar. Blessed silence fell over the desert when the lid slammed shut.

With her fingertips, she brushed the fine grit from her face. Service completed, notus returned to his abode in the south. He finished the binding magic and inscribed the seal to imprison the demons for all eternity.

It is done. Little by little, warmth crept back into her body.

The jar pulsed, the swollen sides rising and falling like the bellows of the forge. Again, the sigils briefly flamed golden. After carefully closing the great book containing the spells and incantations he’d used to control the spirits, the man exhaled a ragged sigh. His chin lowered until it almost touched his chest.

“It is done,” he repeated her very words as if by speaking them out loud, he could be certain.

He lifted his head and regarded the large boulder behind which his attendants cowered. “Come, it is time,” he called. “Remove the vessel.”

At first cautious, the four men came out from behind the rock. They looked around, their eyes wide. She knew they would have heard the sounds, if not the offers, of the Fallen.

“Do not fear,” he said. “The spirits are contained.”

To her surprise, instead of remaining wary and thus cautious, the men surged forward. In their haste, one bumped up against the vessel. She choked as the jar rocked and tilted. The man’s hand slapped down on bare metal. When skin met the vessel’s surface, the sigils under his palm erupted. He screamed and fell to the ground. Heels drummed the ground and his back bowed until he was nearly bent in half. The other men cried out and stumbled backwards, tripping over each other as they retreated.

“God save us!” she heard a cry as she moved. “A land-bound demon.”

Her robes snapped in the air, loud pops of sound like old branches cracking underfoot, as she ran toward the downed man. As she neared, he raised himself up into a crouch. No longer in the guise of a devoted servant, the man’s eyes, as black as the darkest part of the night, glared at her. The attendant’s thin lips stretched away from brown teeth, and he hissed. A forked tongue tasted the air before disappearing.

Without slowing, she unsheathed her sword from under the dust-covered robes and slashed at the land-dwelling demon possessing a mortal’s body. The whistle of the blade as it cut through the air was followed by a wet, sucking noise, like that of walking in the thick mud that lined the Nile’s edges. His head rolled into the sand before coming to rest against a large stone. Dead eyes turned skyward. From the severed neck of the body, a dark oily mist rose, spun into a column, then burst outward like an exploding piece of fruit before it dissipated.

She wiped dark blood from the blade then returned it to its resting place. How long had the attendant been possessed? And what would have happened if he hadn’t stumbled? Her stomach twisted and her meal from the morning soured.

She pivoted and her gaze met his. She read horror in his wide eyes and in the white edging his lips. Even while her own mind screamed with frustration, she said nothing. What could she? A demon had resided in his own house, among his most trusted, and he’d not known. If she’d needed more proof that King Solomon, once the most powerful and revered man in all the lands, was little more than a shell of his former self, she had it.

Ignoring her for the moment, he faced his remaining attendants. Pale faces, grayed by dust or terror, turned toward him. He jerked his head. “Move the vessel, but carefully. Do not break the urn or dislodge the seal.”

His words were harsh. Good. His attendants risked everything with their careless haste. No repetition of the ritual was possible. Not for another passing of the seasons. Grunts and soft curses filled the morning as the three men struggled to load the bronze jar into the cart.

Once fresh straw hid the vessel from prying eyes, Solomon walked over to the cart and handed one of the men the animal skin wrapped book. “This must go. Do not allow anyone to take the book. Bury them together.”

The man bobbed his head and climbed into the cart. With a loud clatter over the rock-strewn path, the oxen-drawn wagon rumbled away. She closed her eyes, relief flooding her body from top to bottom. For a moment, she listened to the fading sound of the beasts’ hooves striking against the rocks. Heat crawled over her exposed skin, irritating the abrasions from the earlier barrage of sand and rocks. She opened her eyes. Again, she met his gaze.

He turned his head, angling it toward her. “You will ensure its protection?”

She lifted her chin. As if he needed to ask. She gave him a brief nod, but did not reply. She knew her duty. Her family spent lifetimes defending the tribes against monsters. Those that walked the land. And those that skulked in the shadows.

Yet, she was different. The first woman in her family’s line to serve

He looked down, fingertips stroking the leather cover of the grimoire.

“Take it.” He offered the book. “You and your descendants will need it if you are to keep the Vessel safe.”

She kept her surprise hidden and stepped forward. Calloused fingers brushed against his smooth ones as she accepted the grimoire. His eyes widened. She, too, felt the slight pulse of energy.
So, Solomon retained some of his magic.
Taking her hand back, she stepped away and swung up on to her stallion. She pulled his dark head around. Putting heels to hide, she sent the horse galloping after the cart.

The protection of the Vessel was her onus. Her burden. Her responsibility. Her right hand curled protectively around the slight bulge at her hips. And those of her line. She must not, would not, fail. The lives of the human race depended on the protection of the Vessel.

No matter the temptations. No matter the evil that stalked her even now.

Lexi sat up with a gasp, and her eyes popped open.
God, what a dream.
Though she hadn’t moved, her heart raced, hulking in her throat instead of resting comfortably within her chest. The damn dream had felt so real. Desert heat and pungent scents lingered on her skin and in her nose. She shivered. Even her tongue seemed to scrape grit from her lips. She half lifted from the cushions then fell back into the soft depths. The room did a slow spin before settling.
Damn, just what had happened last night
?

The last thing she recalled with any degree of clarity was the confrontation with Howard and the mysterious McKay. Everything after that wouldn’t materialize. The harder she tried to grab the images, the faster they slipped away.

Her gaze swept the room, and her eyes widened. Where the hell was she? Certainly, not in her clean, if messy, apartment. Had she, somehow, ended up in a hotel? On second thought, not a hotel. Not with the gorgeous beige, olive and red
chobi
sirjand
Oriental rug glittering on the floor like a jewel. And certainly not with the abundance of historical relics of various shapes, sizes and materials spread about the room as if the owner simply tossed them there. An archeologist’s paradise. The kind of stuff she’d expect to see in a museum. Someone had fantastic, and expensive, taste.

Definitely not her sparse, economically efficient apartment.

She sat up and swung her legs to the floor. The light coverlet over her shoulders drifted to the priceless rug. She tugged at the bottom of her tank lowering it over her stomach. At least she still had on her street clothes. Wrinkled and twisted, but still there. Her battered backpack rested on the floor near where her head had been.

“Hello,” she called out. Her voice didn’t so much echo as fall flat. Hollow.

Praying the woozy sensation had dissipated, she stood. Her gaze shifted about the room, wandering over an item and then moving on. Until she saw the objects sitting on the wide marble shelf over the big ass fireplace. Excitement pushed her to the antique mantel.

Every inch of the warm ochre and beige marble was covered with Canopic jars, small funerary vases used by ancient Egyptians to guard the viscera of mummified corpses. The lid of each vase depicted a representative god’s head, one of the four sons of Horus. Each god guarded a particular organ. Baboon-headed Hapy guarded the lungs, Kebehsenuef, the falcon, protected the intestines, Duamutef watched over the stomach and Imsety defended the liver.

Her fingers itched to trace the outline of each god’s head, the smoothness of the alabaster, the speckled granite, the pitted limestone and cold bronze. All begged to be touched. Admired. Coveted. No way were these tourist souvenirs.

“Damn, Lexi, what the hell are you doing?” she muttered. Sure, the collection was fantastic, but she didn’t belong here.

Wherever here was.

Time to go. She looked around the room. Blinked a couple of times. Then looked again. Where the hell was the door? Nothing that looked like an exit, not even a window. Just walls covered in priceless archeological treasures.

“Hey! Where’s the damn door?”

Nothing. No sounds of people moving about beyond the walls. Just that same weird echo bouncing her words back to her. Her searching gaze passed over the large executive type desk sitting near one wall and stopped.

She cocked her head. Strange. The rock lying on the ornate desk covered with scrolls screamed
look at me
. The lump of stone, dark gray, about seven inches in length and two inches in diameter rested on a pile of paper. Hmm. An ornamental rock. Like the ones avid gardeners actually pay money for to put in their gardens. Smooth looking, a few silver flecks scattered about the surface. Pretty, but still a rock.

She poked the surface then snatched her finger back, curling it into her palm.
Good grief
. Instead of hard, cold stone, her fingertip encountered malleable, warm softness. A stress ball of some type? She pushed harder.

“Watch it, sister!” the rock rumbled. “I bruise easily.”

Lexi let out a startled yelp and froze. Crap! Her gaze swept the room, coming to rest on the rock. “Did the freaking rock just speak to me?”

“Listen, doll. I’m not a rock,” a snow-tread-on-road crunchy voice replied. “And in case you feel compelled to insult me more, I’m not ordinary or common, either.” The rock twitched, shivered and a pair of silver eyes peeped out from the surface. And blinked.

Holy shit, the thing was alive.

“You a defender? Hmm,” the rock continued, his rough tone now sounding petulant. “Definitely a looker. Not too bright though. Imagine. Mistaking me for a rock.”

The hunk of stone did a vibrating thing then
changed
. Into a little figure, still dark gray, still silver eyed, but in miniature human form. A miniature human form wearing a jet black and white striped double-breasted suit complete with black and white wing tip shoes and a black fedora with a white band.