Seal of Solomon (Journeyman Book 2) (6 page)

“Gage,” Joey said as his own lips dipped their way into a frown, “I know how hesitant you’ve been about heading up to New York. I mean, I wish I had all the answers and we didn’t have to, but …”

“No,” Gage interrupted, rolling his shoulders and stretching his back, “you're right. It's about time I faced my own demons before they drag me all the way back down to rock bottom. Been there way too much for one lifetime and probably even have a couple times reserved for the next one.”

Joey slowly nodded. “Yeah, I know what you mean. I felt like the world had ended when I lost my dad – gosh how time flies by. Adrienne was there already to pick up the pieces I threw all around, thank God. Then, of course you showed up big guy, with all the charm of a mastodon. Truly, I wouldn’t be who I am today without you.”

“Ain’t no thing, my man. Seriously, it’s what family does for each other. As for the trip; why don't we plan to visit ol’ Citta in the next couple days? That’ll give us a chance to adequately prep, head out, and get this shit rolling.”

Joey smiled. He could definitely raise his glass to that.

Gage did the same and they tapped them against each other.

“To family,” Joey toasted.

“And more. Plus, finally gettin’ to the bottom of what the fucking Noctis are up to,” Gage added.

“Damn right,” Joey said and they both downed a robust swig.

“So, J,” Gage began when he set the glass back on the table, folding his arms as if to reveal a deep, dark secret or ask a very profound, mission critical question. “Is it just me, or does Om’s name remind ya of a bug? Don’t ya dare tell him I said that when we meet him.”

Joey sat in utter silence, not even sure what to say. Gosh, he hadn’t thought about that at all… and how the heck did Gage even have time to think it? Never mind.

“Excuse me,” a familiar voice interrupted, saving Joey from having to answer. It was Frank, along with two other staff members at each side. “I hate to butt in, but I'm sure you two strapping guys would like to know your dinner is served.”

Plates upon hot plates were set down in front of them and the table became a wondrous landscape of fried carb bliss. Any normal person would be raptured away to meaty heaven or, if unable to handle the intense tastiness, sink into a food coma just from a mere glance at their table.

In fact, many in the restaurant were doing just that, in awe of the food that just kept coming. A majority of the eleven plates ended up on Gage’s side and Joey looked over his meal, quite a respectable size in its own right, before looking back to Gage’s. He couldn’t help but snicker at how much his paled in comparison.

“Always bigger and better than me, eh? You’re definitely gonna need that workout later.”

THE FRONT DOOR
to the Lodge flew open by means of a size eleven sneaker and Gage waddled in. His legs were painful and swollen from the routine he had just finished with Joey and his stomach was still a bit distended from the gluttonous feast earlier.

“Well, I am gonna feel that for the next few days, ya lil’ fucker,” said Gage to Joey as he came in and closed the door. He would have turned around but that required too much effort, much more than he had to spare. “We really should move the gym to somewhere in the main house,” he continued. “That walk, especially after a session like this, is just plain killer. Remind me to put that bitch Keli through one, too.”

“Haha, you have fun moving all that equipment by yourself,” Joey replied, recalling what a nightmare it was to put the stuff down there at the shop in the first place. There was no way he was going to move that shit anywhere in the next century. “Plus, it wasn’t my fault that you decided to go for that ninth set of squats!”

“Oh come on, it sure was! As soon as ya decided to do a ninth for yourself… ya took on
all
the blame!”

“Well, just trying to be on your level, big guy. Fitness goals and all.”

“Damn right and you're getting there! Goals try to break ya along the way but to me, it's satisfying when ya smash right through them.”

The breakfast table beckoned as always and without another word they fell into the chairs, absolutely exhausted. Each had a gallon of water in a plastic jug that was about halfway full. They simultaneously turned them up and Gage must've downed at least a third of what remained in one go.

Joey lowered his jug, wiping away a little bit that dribbled on his chin. “Thirsty much?” he observed.

“Actually yes,” Gage confirmed, “now that ya mention it, I’ve been this way ever since my run-ins on the highway. I can't seem to get enough fluids to stay put.”

“That’s definitely odd,” Joey said, looking to Gage with concern. “Maybe we can find something to fix that when we’re up in New York, too.” He took another big gulp. “I can check out the flights in the morning if you want me to.”

Gage blinked a few times, nearly choking on his water. He brought his jug down and just as his eyebrow went up. “Flights?”

“Yeah, unless you want to be stuck in my car’s seats for a few days. I know how much you love how spacious they are. In any case, flying would be much faster.”

Gage’s shoulders twitched at the notion of sitting in that tiny, springy seat – not just for minutes or hours, but for days. As he continued to mull over the prospect, even his ass became raw from imagining every pothole, bump, hell every leaf they would run over in that low riding car.

“Sold,” he said without any more hesitation, convinced flying was the way to go.

Joey was surprised that went so easily, but it was short-lived.

“So which Journeyman is flyin’ us up there?” Gage asked eagerly. “Wallace?”

Joey grimaced. “Sorry G, no private charters. I don’t think anyone could get here faster than us driving, so if we plan to head up soon, our only option is to pretty much fly commercial.”

Ah the commercial airline seat; bane for a big guy like Gage, especially the middle ones. His shoulders were so broad that when sitting by the aisle, he would be bumped and bruised relentlessly by other passengers or the edge of a drink cart. Sitting by the window was no better, pressing up tightly against an immovable wall. Then there was the jubilant middle, people on each side either touching him constantly or using his shoulders as makeshift pillows.

“Oh joy of joys,” Gage said sarcastically. “I guess I can live with that. Do we plan on takin’ any gear with us? Weapons?”

“Well, I suggest that we go fairly low key,” Joey directed, “not that there’s a need for demons to frequent human airports with their ability to manifest at will, but it’d be good for us not to draw a ton of unnecessary attention our way. Especially with the allies the demons have working for them. I recommend we pack some of the smaller, warded daggers in our checked bags – use them once we arrive. On the plane itself, we should arm ourselves with rune stones or worst case, sketched wards. I think I should be able to get my large collection of ‘collectable ornamental rocks’ past security without much issue.”

“So, gonna have to leave the MK-23 here then?” Gage probed, the melancholy prominent in his voice.

“Pretty much, my man,” Joey confirmed, seeing in Gage’s face that he didn’t like the idea at all, “unless you want to fill out reams of documentation, which sort of defeats the low key factor. Frankly, I’ve reviewed enough paperwork over this week.” His eyes suddenly lit up. “Oh! On the bright side, if Om is where he’s supposed to be, I’m sure he has some pretty interesting weaponry we could play with… or use.”

On the surface it sounded like a pretty good proposal and all that was left to do was see it through. Which, as history showed, wasn’t going to be easy for this motley crew. With the plan now roughed out, Gage stood up and pushed in his chair, taking leave for some rest.

“Well, this guy can’t hold his eyes open any more,” he said following a massive yawn. “Gonna hit the shower, then the sack.”

“Goodnight, G,” Joey said pensively. His eyes trailed the firmness encased in those tight black jeans as it strutted around the corner and up the stairs, pausing for a little daydreaming before looking back down to the far less interesting scribbles in his notepad.

The red ink he had sprawled across the lower third of the page caught his attention. There was Om Citta’s name, next to which he had roughly circled the word ‘anchored.’ It was written in all caps, underlined twice, with five big question marks trailing off to the right.

“Does this guy live on some kind of boat?” Joey asked aloud. Scratching at his beard, he realized how stupid that notion was – this was the concrete jungle of New York City, not some quaint seaside marina; there was no way he lived on a rickety old ship.

Figuring himself tired, Joey decided that he better get some sleep as well and headed upstairs. The rest of the week was shaping up to be incredibly busy.

A WANING GIBBOUS
moon hung over the neat little houses of Whittingham, which looked like rows of boxy teeth as they glinted in the pallid light. Monsters of all sorts were swarming the streets, terrorizing residents with their cackles and screeches while zealously clawing at their front doors. All carried huge sacks, threatening to burst at the seams, obese from the spoils of the evening. Yet they were not full of bloody body parts, nor the severed heads of unsuspecting residents, but overflowing with delectable chocolates and delicious sweets.

Halloween had once again rolled around on the calendar and the children of Lancashire frolicked while dressed up as their favorite monsters from old stories and fairy tales, unsuspecting of the very real danger lurking just over a mile away.

Disguised as a construction yard under the cover of a powerful illusion spell, the timeworn sanitarium – used by the Noctis as their headquarters – bustled with commotion and the roars of actual monsters.

A matted mess of hair slammed hard against the top of a podium set in front of the main steps. Behind it, a crowd of a hundred or so fiends had assembled on the grounds throughout the cool day and into the evening, bringing with them a sentiment of displeasure for the current regime. Specifically, the she-demon in charge.

“Your leadership in this matter, Onoskelis, is severely lacking!” the tall werewolf bellowed from the raised dais. The orange flickers of torches that lined each side danced across his scowling muzzle. He rose seven feet on his formidable hind legs, extending an arm to point directly at the blonde woman on the steps. “We could have better leadership from a gnome! I am not referring to just one or two aspects; the entire shit storm has winds the strength of a hurricane! Perhaps we were wrong to place our confidence in your kind, who seem to know nothing of success, yet fails in epic style.”

The gathering jeered in agreement with the proud beast and had there been any doubt, the sheer level of noise would have smothered it. The alliance of dark forces had always been fragile, held together by thin strands of mistrust and deception without much more to back it up. Hardly the materials to lay a strong foundation and build ties amongst such an incongruent group of factions. Now, with the recent loss of the amulet and chain, the problems had multiplied and the whole thing started to show severe signs of unravelling.

Keli continued to quietly stare down the stairs to the mob. The Hell Knight Paimon stood proudly to her right and Astaroth over to her left. A group of lesser demons dressed in their Sunday best had taken up in a semi-circle behind the trio.

“Your kind has NOT been free of failure, either,” Paimon retorted, taking a step forward. He was dressed in his dark demonic armor and regalia, the fingers of his gauntlet wrapped tightly around the handle of a gigantic flail. Its striking ball sat heavily on the stone, patiently waiting command. “Or have you already forgotten the disaster in Durango leading to the loss of Baal? THAT was caused by the idiocy of your kind. Or if that isn’t recent enough, perhaps the recent attempt to stop the human from escaping with the treasures? The ineptitude of wolves lead to that as well, Steinolf!”

“They were following her orders,” he barked back.

Paimon flippantly motioned his arm as if throwing something. “If I toss a stick, will you go away?”