Seal of Solomon (Journeyman Book 2) (10 page)

There he was met with the sight of garishly lavish wallpaper, lining a hall with nearly two dozen bronze frames of various sizes. Photos of a sickeningly happy newlywed couple smiled back.

He didn’t venture too far from the foyer, choosing instead to head up the thin flight of stairs to the right. How fortunate for him that he only sensed one of them was home, passing by the pale night light on the landing. It was the husband, asleep in the master bedroom. He slid along the carpeted floor to the white door, wondering briefly if the wife was late home from the office or if the photos downstairs betrayed the reality that she was away at her mother’s due to an argument. Perhaps he was a cheater? That would be sinfully indulgent and karma being quite the bitch if the case.

Ultimately, it did not matter. The door to the bedroom hung halfway open and light from the window beckoned him to enter. He didn’t waste any time doing so and in short time was walking silently through the room, so quiet he could have been floating through the surroundings. The room looked like the aftermath of several designer magazines mating, spawning the furniture and all associated trappings in an orgasmic heap. Astaroth was having a hard time deciding if it was pleasant or horrid, but it wouldn’t be much longer before it was all suitable for a demon.

There, sprawled out in his boxers, was a snoring man in his early twenties. At first glance perhaps an engineer; that could explain such a young person living in such a well-to-do home. Regardless, Astaroth reached into his suit and pulled out a dagger.

He slowly stepped right up to the head of the bed and looked down on his unsuspecting victim. He placed the blade just short of the man’s neck and in one swift motion pulled it across.

“
Sanguinem ex inferno,”
Astaroth whispered as the man gasped. The virgin white of the sheets became drenched in red, growing darker as more pooled behind him. He cupped his hands and held them beneath the man’s neck, allowing some of the warm liquid to collect.

When the area was overflowing, he walked away from the bed, keeping the blood contained, and returned downstairs. He entered the living room and moved to the center, kicking over the kitsch coffee table to clear out enough space. Blinking, his human eyes shifted into their demon form while three sticks of dark wax and an old piece of parchment rose out of his pockets. They hovered just above his hands as he spoke demonically.

“With these offerings I hereby will, by authority as Great Duke of Hell and servant to Lucifer the Grand King, that I may speak directly with Lord Dajjal without prying or hindrance. So sayeth the Covenants decreed in ages past.”

The parchment promptly crumpled then burst into flame and the blood in his hands began to boil. The waxy nubs melted and floated to form Dajjal’s sigil, black and shining in the trembling light. Quickly, Astaroth tossed the steaming blood into the air and the surroundings quaked, groaning under immense forces.

There was a sudden rush of searing heat. Astaroth raised his arm and with a loud
snap
, an ornate shield had appeared out of the boiling air to protect him. The room had gone from magazine-perfect to a scene of total destruction. The walls cracked and fell apart, the ceiling crumbled, and the furniture exploded into clouds of wood and fabric. The debris circled as if caught up in a vortex before wholly combusting at the far end of the former living room.

This was no ordinary fire, burning with all the hate and intensity of pure hellfire.

Cautiously, Astaroth moved himself closer, inspecting the spinning cyclone of flame before kneeling. He stretched out an arm to each side and bowing his head, spoke softly, fortified with fear. “I have called you here, Lord Dajjal. Do you hear me?”

He replied without the faintest hint of the nervousness that overcame Astaroth. “Who are you?” his voice rumbled.

“My Lord, it’s Astaroth,” he replied, struggling to loosen his tie and unfasten the topmost button of his shirt. The heat was agonizing, taking a lot of energy to keep his host from burning away. Had he been mortal, it would have been fatal.

“Ah, Great Duke,” Dajjal said with the tiniest modicum of happiness. “To what do I owe this unexpected… and delinquent pleasure?”

Astaroth’s eyes darted around the room – the hardwoods were aflame, along with a large, ornamental floor rug; priceless possessions made worthless in no time. “I… have a message to convey,” he said without strength, “and also need for your help.”

“Now of all times?” he asked sarcastically. “It must be urgent indeed for you to come to me now… and not before.”

“Apologies, my Lord,” Astaroth said, cringing with anxiety. “I was blinded for some time by the promises of the new regime. Since Eligos was overthrown, I believed things would improve, but they have not. In fact, we seem to be failing much more than succeeding in our activities.”

Dajjal was not impressed with what he was hearing. “Such as?”

“To name but a few things: the Ire is gone, as are its shackles. They are in the possession of a human that is being allowed to gallivant around and collect the rest. Demons are being ordered about by earthbound monsters and though I understand the need to have alliances for an undertaking of this size, the ones that are being forged are extremely fragile.”

“I see…” Dajjal answered. “Then it is much worse than I thought. There is no fear. No fear of failure, no fear of punishment, and certainly no fear of pain. The followers do not know who the leaders actually are. This. Must. Change.”

Astaroth was terrified, but agreed. He still held onto doubt that he should ever have contacted this demon, but carried on nonetheless. “Yes my Lord. Additionally -”

“There is MORE?”

He recoiled as the heat intensified. “Yes… unfortunately. We are not leading incursions into Journeymen territory in order to gain ground. We sit idly by, pandering to Earth creatures, and just wait for things to happen. Operations have all but ceased in Karachi, Algeria, Easter Island -”

“I’ve heard enough,” Dajjal thundered. “If you bring me there, I will guarantee change, guarantee you a greater place in the new era – directly at Lucifer’s side.”

This was music to Astaroth’s ears. “I can certainly work on this for you.” He was hesitant to continue, not knowing where the conversation might lead. Yet, he had already opened the door and it was too late to avoid walking all the way through it. “There is another matter, the help I referred to.”

The flames roared. “Go on.”

“In order for the alliance with the monsters to continue for now and for me to work on getting you to the Earth, I must be able to gain Onoskelis’ trust. She has ordered that we attack Gage Crosse’s estate somewhere in Houston. Doing this will serve to satisfy all these proposals.”

“Gage Crosse…” Dajjal said with hate. The abhorrence in his voice was palpable. “That name has even reached
my
ears in the depths of the pits themselves. Tell me, Great Duke, how is it a measly, little, pathetic human can exert dominance over the entirety of DEMON KIND? This is far more potent than anything the Journeymen themselves have ever done. If he gets them to rally, then our chances of success are greatly diminished, perhaps eliminated.”

“Well, the Lodge as they call it, is protected by all sorts of warding, sigils and enchantments. It would be impossible for us to launch a strike, even if we knew where it was because we don’t know what has been included in their defenses. Do you know of a way to simply… erase all the warding?”

There was an extended silence, so long that the flames seemed to quiet. Astaroth was left to wonder if Dajjal was contemplating an answer, or had simply left, offended by the outrageous notion of his question.

The stillness subsided and the flames roared, spitting up showers of sparks. “Yes, I know of a way,” Dajjal finally replied. “Lucifer himself made mention of it during the War of Heaven as a possible means for us to assail some of the holiest of places. It is potent magic. Fundamental.”

“Will it work?” asked Astaroth, relieved by what he was hearing.

“Yes…”

“Then tell me what to do!” Astaroth implored.

Dajjal wasn't stupid. “All in due time, as I get to understand your true motives.”

“But -”

“Enough!” Dajjal shouted, having had his fill. The flames surged uncontrollably. “I do not wish to be used, Astaroth, and then placed back in a little box like some spent rune stone! I have been there once before and shall not make the same mistake again. Once you've proven to me that your promises have value, I will tell you the entirety of the spell.”

Astaroth was left with no choice but to agree.

Dajjal had again become eerily calm, yet managed to uphold an ever-present sense of dread. “So, I see that you have come here for my help, but what of the other free Knights? Baal and Paimon?”

“Baal is dead,” Astaroth answered, dejected.

“How?”

Astaroth was painfully embarrassed to mention Onoskelis again. “The ineptitude of our leader, my Lord. She has been placing too much authority with and not enough control on the monsters. The werewolves unleashed the infernal jinn, Ifrit, and it decimated a great swath of a human city, along with Baal. So much for secrecy and whispers in the dark.”

“Disgraceful… Insolent… Foolish.”

“As for Paimon?” Astaroth continued. “He is nothing more than a yes-demon, consistently siding with Onoskelis on all matters, whether they favor our kind or not.”

Dajjal had absolutely no patience for such things. “Then he must be dealt with.”

Astaroth raised his head, wide-eyed. “My Lord?”

The fires lapped at the remnants of the curtains, as if searching for more to consume. “Going back to your need to gain access to Gage Crosse’s property, I will tell you this: the spell requires an essence – a powerful one – to act as the kindling. I believe that we can take care of Gage and a wayward Hell Knight in one fell swoop.”

Anxiety overflowed in Astaroth. “Are you suggesting that we…”

“Certainly,” said Dajjal without pity. “So there it is; we have our plan. When you have a way to return me to Earth, summon me at a place of your choosing. I will help you complete the spell. Do not fail me.
Vale,
Astaroth.”

A final explosion took the form of a horned skull and the great fires extinguished themselves. Astaroth’s shield vanished and he fell to the floor in a sweating heap as the wailing of sirens rose in the distance.

HENRY FELT EXCESSIVELY
groggy, a likely side effect from the oxycodone and whatever concoction was in the drip bag, coupled with his bitter mood du jour. It probably didn't help that he had been intermittently waking up since half-past two that morning.

Ordinary medical procedures were far from his favorite go to, always leaving him feeling a bit too stretched or otherwise violated from the downright medieval practices of sticking things, hacking things, and sawing things. The mere thought of such sent tremors down the length of both his arms. Yet despite his woes, ordering up what he believed were far more effective potions or tinctures was impossible here. After all, he was in a regular hospital with regular doctors, not some Journeyman base with herbalists or rune stones – a realization made weeks ago which only added to his particularly sour temperament.

He looked to the left and wiggled his fingers, eyeing the drip bag and its clear fluid dangling from a nearby stand. Groaning, he traced the tube down from the bag and straight into a vein in his forearm.
Needles… how positively barbaric. You would think that better means would exist for the masses in the twenty-first century.

He pushed his head back into the not-so-soft pillow and set to staring at a tiny blemish in the otherwise pristine ceiling. It had been there since he arrived, quite the reliable friend to help wile away the hours. It was much smaller when he first arrived, so he supposed there could be a leak in one of the water pipes, dripping away unhurriedly like the archaic bag on the stand he so hated. Just then, breaking the stale silence, sounds of Westminster quarters chimed in from across the Thames, followed by tolls that indicated it was ten o’clock.

“Lunch isn’t for another hour yet,” he whispered, but his stomach complained anyway. Plus, dammit, that insatiable itch again was back again, taunting halfway down his right forearm. Propping himself up, he raised the arm and the sheet covering it fell away. There was no lower limb there – only a nub ending at the elbow.

“Bloody ogre,” he mumbled, pretending to scratch at the phantom itch before throwing himself back onto the pillow. “Ah much better.”

It had been nearly a month since he was brought in by helicopter from Lancashire, transferred to this hospital for emergency surgery after all the treatments were failing at the former facility. During that first week, it was incredibly difficult to get past the intense pain – so much so that ending his life managed to creep into his thoughts on the fourth day. Thankfully, those feelings of despair were fleeting and since arriving in London, the pain had fallen off substantially, supplanted however by the ever-present itch.