The Seal of Solomon (13 page)

I landed hard on my stomach and slid four or five feet before coming to a stop. I scrambled to my feet, my boots slipping on this strange surface, and looked around.

Mike was standing on a makeshift platform or altar, with about a dozen robed men gathered around him, probably part of the Bedouin tribe Op Nine talked about. The damned camel was gone.

In front of the altar, sitting on another wooden platform, was a lidless copper jar. It could only be the Holy Vessel, where the demons had been imprisoned for three thousand years.

I walked toward him, cradling the 3XD, still slipping and sliding a little on the glassy ground. Mike laughed when he saw me coming.

“You know what that is?” he shouted at me. “Glass! Heat from the demons' release fried the sand. Can you believe it?”

I didn't say anything. I didn't have anything left to say to Mike Arnold, who had literally dragged me into this whole thing and who was responsible for so many deaths.

I was going to get that ring from him or die trying.

I raised the 3XD—to hell with conserving ammo—and a dozen Uzis appeared from beneath the Bedouins' robes.

“Fortunately, the ol' Seal protects its wearer from a whole bunch of nasty consequences,” he said.

He whispered something to one of the tribesmen, and I saw the muzzle of his Uzi flash before feeling the punch in my thigh. The round knocked my feet out from under me and I landed right on my tailbone, which hurt almost as much as the bullet.

I pushed myself up, rocking now on my heels. I could feel the warm blood running down my leg.

I gritted my teeth and took a step toward Mike, bringing up the 3XD a second time.

The next bullet hit me in the right shoulder, the impact flinging my arm away. The 3XD clattered to the ground. I fell to my knees, pressing the heel of my left hand against the burning spot in my shoulder.

“Stay down, Al,” Mike said softly. “I promise it'll be quick.”

I looked up at him, blinking back tears. Mike stepped off the platform, walked over to where I knelt, and pulled his 9mm Glock from his belt. He leveled it at my forehead.

“Good-bye, Al,” he said.

24

His finger tightened on the trigger—then suddenly froze. Something behind me had caught his attention. His eyes went wide.

“Awww,
darn
it!” he breathed.

I turned and saw two things: the sun rising in the east and something silhouetted against it—actually about fifty somethings, coming straight for us, flying in tight formation, their four low-hanging turrets flashing orange balls of light as they came.

They were Apache attack helicopters, the air support Abigail Smith had called in during the opening skirmish.

I lunged forward, slamming my weight into Mike's knees, knocking him backward, and he cried out when he smacked into the glass.

I threw myself on top of him and slammed my fist into his grinning, gum-smacking, wise-cracking mouth. Then I yanked the gun out of his hand and jammed the muzzle under his chin.

“Do it,” he whispered. Blood ran out of the side of his mouth and trickled down his jaw.

I didn't pull the trigger, though. With my free hand I grabbed the ring and gave it a sharp yank, pulling it from his finger.

By then the Bedouins had reached us, shouting in confusion, some of them yelling at Mike and some at me, but it didn't really matter because I had the ring now.

I pushed myself off Mike and didn't bother trying to stand up. The ground was too slippery, plus I was losing a lot of blood and felt a little light-headed. I scooted back on my throbbing backside, putting some distance between us.

The Apaches swooped down into the swarming hornet's nest of demons, guns blazing, and the sun cast spinning bars of red and gold through the roiling haze.

I watched the demons adopt a Kamikaze mode of attack, gathering themselves into fireballs and ramming into the copters. At first, the Apaches seemed to absorb the blows, only to expand like overfilled balloons and blow apart, minisuns going supernova against the indigo sky.

Then I slipped the ring onto my finger.

“Drop 'em!” I shouted at the Bedouins, even though I doubted the Seal of Solomon controlled anything but demon hordes. It worked, though. The Uzis fell out of their hands without a word of protest. Maybe I couldn't control them, but they knew what I could control.

I slid back around to face the battle and raised my fist, pointing the ring toward the demon hordes. I screamed at the top of my lungs: “STOP! QUIT IT! CUT IT OUT! I'M THE BOSS NOW! LEAVE US ALONE!”

Nothing happened. The battle went on. Maybe I put it on the wrong hand.

I yanked the ring off, and at that moment Mike Arnold jumped me.

He drove his knee into my back, throwing me forward. The ring flew from my hand and skidded across the polished glass. Mike landed on top of me, smashing my face into the ground.

“Oh, Lord,” Mike breathed in my ear. I rolled him off me and scrambled after the ring.

I beat Mike to it, but only because he didn't chase after it. He had seen something that I didn't until it was too late.

The ring came to a stop at the feet of the seven-foot-tall demon king called Paimon, who picked it up just as I stretched out my hand to grab it.

Then I did an incredibly stupid thing: I looked right into its eyes.

PART THREE
The Hunt for the Hyena

—original message—

To:
Aquarius

From:
ChiCubsFan

Subject:
Sub-Sub-Sec. Op Utopia

See attached briefing memo. That damned kid has practically cost us the game! LS in my possession. Am now making for Barcelona via rail.

Request immediate recall.

Help.

ChiCubsFan

Attachment (
SUBSUBSECOPUTOP.DOC
)

To:
ChiCubsFan

From:
Aquarius

Subject:
Sub-Sub-Sec. Op Utopia

Go immediately to ground until further notified. Situation is extremely fluid and IAs' intent not clear. I'll do my best from this end to manage interface with signatories. Hold for further instructions but under no circumstances make contact with anyone.

I suggest you sequester your loved ones to circumvent application of Section Nine protocols.

Aquarius

25

“Alfred? Alfred Kropp, can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Alfred, I want you to do something for me. I want you to open your eyes, very slowly. Can you do that for me?”

“I'll try.”

“There now. Is it too bright, Alfred? We can dim the lights.”

“Do I have to leave them open?”

“Only for a few minutes, if you can.”

“Okay.”

“Can you see me, Alfred? Can you see my face?”

“Yes.”

“Do you recognize me?”

“Yes.”

“And do you remember my name?”

“I—I'm not sure . . .”

“It's all right. You're perfectly safe here. Alfred, my name is Dr. Abigail Smith. Do you remember now?”

“No. Not really. You look familiar, though. Why can't I move my arms?”

“We had to restrain you, for your own protection.”

“What if I need to scratch my nose?”

“Does your nose itch?”

“No, but just in case . . . I'm not sure I remember your name, ma'am, but your face is familiar, or at least this fuzzy image I'm getting of your face. Where am I?”

“You are in Company headquarters, Alfred.”

“What company?”

“OIPEP. Do you remember OIPEP?”

“Should I?”

“You should, though you might not wish to.”

“Oh, well, I'd rather not remember anything I don't wish to. Who's the big guy standing behind you?”

“His name is Operative Nine.”

“Weird. Why am I lying in this bed? Am I sick?”

“You have suffered . . . an attack.”

“Like a seizure or something like that?”

“Something like that.”

The lady called Abigail Smith smiled. She had very bright teeth. Mom always said you could tell a lot about a person by their teeth.

“Where is my mom?”

The lady glanced at the weird guy she called Operative Nine. “Alfred,” she said. “Your mother passed away four years ago.”

“She did?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“I'm supposed to know that, right?”

“We're hoping your memory will return in time.”

“How do I know you're not lying to me?”

The big guy stepped forward and I said, “You're probably the ugliest man I've ever seen in my life. What's the deal with the long earlobes?”

He didn't say anything. He just smiled.

“Your teeth aren't as nice as Dr. OIPEP's here. Are you both dressed in black because my mom died?”

“Alfred,” he said. “I'm going to say a name to you now and I want you to tell me if you recognize it.”

“Perhaps this is too soon,” Abigail Smith said to him.

He ignored her. He bent very low over my face and whispered, “Alfred, the name is
Paimon
.”

My arms jerked in their bindings. My fingers clawed at the metal poles of the bed, trying to reach my eyes. My mouth came open but no sound came out: the howl stayed locked inside my head. My gut heaved and I vomited greenish brown puke onto the crisp, white pillowcase.

Abigail Smith sighed. “I told you it was too soon. Get somebody in here to clean this up.”

He left and she was leaning over me, cupping my face in her hands, forcing me to look into her eyes. Her breath was sweet-smelling, like licorice.

“Alfred, Alfred, it's all right. Everything's going to be all right. Stay with me, Alfred—I won't let you go, I promise. I won't let you go. Focus on my eyes, Alfred,
my
eyes. It can't find you now, do you understand? Do you understand me, Alfred?” I nodded. I slowly relaxed, but the smell of my own puke was getting to me. She let go of my face long enough to grab a towel from somewhere. She lifted my head and wiped the pillowcase clean, then flipped the pillow over, puke side down. Then she lowered my head.

“You're safe now, Alfred, perfectly safe. It's not here.”

I shook my head. “You're wrong. It is here. It'll always be here.”

26

The big guy with the long earlobes came back with a fresh pillow, a man in a white lab coat right behind him.

“Another doctor,” I said. “Great. How sick am I?”

Abigail Smith pulled out the pukey pillow and Operative Nine slid the new one under my head.

The doctor took my pulse and prodded my torso and stared into my cavities with a penlight. He measured my blood pressure and drew some blood. Except when he shone the light into them, he avoided looking into my eyes. He nodded to Operative Nine and left the room without a word. Abigail Smith came back to hover over me. I looked over her shoulder at the droopy-eared Operative Nine. “What's his story?”

“Op Nine is a demonologist, conversant in history, characteristics, classification, and possession. Best in the field.”

“So that's why I'm here—I'm possessed?”

“Not precisely,” he answered. “You have been—pried open. You cast your eyes into the very windows of hell, Alfred. Not the fabled or poetic visions of hell, of fire and brimstone and souls writhing in eternal agony, but the true vision of hell: the absolute and irreparable separation from heaven. What that experience is like I cannot say and hope you cannot remember.”

Abigail Smith said to him, “Alfred told me it's still with him.”

“Perhaps it is,” Operative Nine said. “The Hiroshima bomb seared the very shadows of its victims into the pavement.”

“This is not good,” I said.

“On the contrary,” he said. “This is extraordinarily good.

You survived with your body and mind intact. That is more than can be said for the majority of our party.”

“Well,” I said. “Everybody's definition of the word may be a little different, but seeing that my memory's shot, I'm covered head to toe in bandages, tied down to a hospital bed, and talking very calmly about demons like they were the most natural thing in the world, like butterflies or Honda Preludes. I'm not sure I would call that
intact
.”

“Your memory will return in time, I think, and your body will heal. The other person who met the Fallen's eyes is dead. He awoke in the desert and tore his own heart from his chest.”