The Demon Signet (30 page)

It is?

“Part of an ancient equation that will unlock the end of days.”

What the hell am I saying?

“But this particular piece of the puzzle is supernatural in its composition. The Templars found it when excavating the ruins of Solomon’s Temple.”

He looked at Heather and saw in her eyes the same thing he was feeling. Fear. Something that he had no control over had settled down inside him, taking up residence in total disregard of his own will. Apparently, it had begun to unpack its library, sharing its knowledge with him. It scared him to death, even while part of him felt a certain sense of power because of it. “I have no idea what I’m saying!” He began to laugh, but then fright took hold and brought frustrated tears to his laughter.

“What h-h-happened to you?”

The look on her face said it all. She wasn’t looking at him like the lovers they were, like a couple engaged to be married. She was looking at him like he was a total stranger that might at any second turn into an arachnid alien and chew her head off. She might not be wrong. That mild stutter came close to getting her face slapped. “Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant?”

No, don’t go there…
The anger was surging, seeking an escape that could not end well.

“I…” She trailed off, the question numbing her mind as much as the weather was freezing her body. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

Without any kind of warning, Ian reached out and grabbed her face, squeezing it with that inhuman strength that had almost killed her before.

Heather screamed, rolling onto her side and gripping his wrist.

He managed to release her before any damage was done.

She lay there, unable to feel her body, staring at him.

Ian didn’t know how it happened, but he was certain that knowledge had just been transferred between them, somehow leaping from his touch and into her mind. She now knew about Jessica and what had happened seven years ago, about the secret abortion and the pain it had caused him, the role it had played in their separation. And not only did she know of his pain, she
felt
it. The look that filled her eyes pleaded, begged, apologized.

“You were going to kill our child…”

“No…”

“You were thinking about it.”

“I…” There was nothing she could say. All the logic and reason that seemed to justify the consideration now seemed too absurd to utter. The only card she had to play was one that she wasn’t sure of herself, though now she wanted to believe it more than anything. The question was: would
he
believe it? “I wouldn’t have.”

He stared at her, contemplating those three words.

****

Ashley’s hand was killing her. She kept trying to free it from Marcus’ grasp, but to pull against him only inflicted more pain. All she could hope to do was keep up with him, to prevent him from tugging so much. But the road’s shoulder was narrow, and there wasn’t room enough for them to run side-by-side. She screamed out to him again, but still he couldn’t hear her. He kept pulling. Pain flashed brilliantly up her arm, making her gasp.

Cars began exploding.

Turning, her splintered bones full of protest, she saw a ball of fire reaching through the snow and heading straight for them. She ducked, hollering for Marcus’ attention again, but he was so intent on moving ahead that he seemed to have missed the sound of the exploding cars behind them. She shouted out in agony, pulling against his grip with all the force she could muster, even while feeling things snap and pop in her wrist. Finally, Marcus slowed and turned to face her. That’s when he saw the wall of fire racing toward them and engulfing everything in its path, cars flipping up and consumed in its open mouth. This time, Ashley pulled
him
down, and the flame rushed by overhead. She could feel the heat of it as it passed and strangely appreciated the way it warmed her cold skin.

“What the heck was that?” Marcus asked, standing and looking back down the road.

Ashley stood beside him, her hand hanging limp at her side. Her face was screwed tight with dismay, unbelief, and terror. What littered the road behind them was nothing short of apocalyptic. Vehicles were overturned, scattered in pieces, on fire. Bodies were everywhere, flames reflecting off blood and melting ice. Women were screaming, running around, their clothes on fire.

Another car exploded, its hood flying through the air, spinning. Ashley watched as it took the head clean off a man that had been bent over the body of a little boy. The sight fractured her mind further. The exposed vertebrae, the torn flesh, the way the head rolled and bounced…

She felt Marcus pulling at her again, but she couldn’t get her feet to move. He was screaming something into her ear, but the dancing flames spilling across the highway held her prisoner in some far-off place. Then she noticed streaks of light, falling like meteors through the air. Only they weren’t millions of miles away and confined to the night sky—which, of course, she couldn’t see anyway. These shooting stars were small, like fireflies screaming down through the air and boring themselves into metal and flesh. Occasionally they caused something to explode. She saw what Marcus was pointing at and discovered for herself the origin of these darting lights.

The flames cast their orange glow up and through the twisting snow, managing to illuminate the underbelly of two more black helicopters. Only these helicopters weren’t deploying troops, but indiscriminate death across the landscape below.

“Come on!” Marcus screamed.

When he pulled her sweatshirt, she lost her balance and fell, banging her head into the door of a minivan. The impact served to clear her head from her stupor, and she finally tore her eyes away from the hell around her. Another car exploded.

Marcus led her to the guardrail, apparently giving up on trying to find Heather and Ian, and helped her over it. Only then, once they were off the interstate, did he release her broken hand and allow her to travel under her own power.

They both sprinted across the white field, darkness and a wall of wind-tossed snow concealing from them whatever it was they were running toward.

Others had the same idea, and a small exodus began storming across the field adjacent to them, preferring the cold unknown to certain death.

After minutes of running, far enough away that they couldn’t see anything in any direction, Ashley lost her legs. They fell out from beneath her as if they decided on their own to just switch off. She hit the snow, and for a moment cherished the comfort of simply lying still. Her chest heaved beneath the Bills sweater as her body grew pleasantly numb. She didn’t want to go on, to move another muscle. She just wanted to lay there, to close her eyes and surrender. She couldn’t do this anymore. Whatever was going on, whatever horror had reached into their lives, she could no longer deal with it. She wanted it all to go away. Her eyelids grew heavy, flickered in minor protest, and then closed, shutting out the frozen nightmare she’d been sentenced to.

That’s when she felt it.

It was hard to define and unlike anything she’d ever felt before, but it was there.

A spark.

It erupted in her leg and moved up her side, into her chest, up her neck, and blossomed beneath her hair, tingling her scalp.

Her broken hand, which she could no longer feel, began probing her pocket.

She opened her eyes, conscious of a discovery though not yet able to feel it in her fingers. The wind whipped her hair back and forth, attempting to rip it from her head. Snowflakes attacked her eyeballs while the ground beneath worked to suck the life from her body. And yet, when she set her eyes on the object in her hand, she gasped, sure she had to be dreaming.

The ring.

Marcus was beside her, trying to help her up. “You okay?” he asked over the weather.

She nodded, her eyes still captivated by the ring in her hand and wondering how it might have gotten there.

Marcus noticed her expression and followed her eyes. Confusion wrenched his forehead.

“Give it to us.”

The voice seemed to come from all around them, though how that was possible no longer mattered. Ashley had stopped turning to conventional wisdom for answers a couple days ago.

“Give it to us, and I promise all of this will stop.”

They twirled about, using their arms as shields against the storm, but they couldn’t see anything beyond the ice chips flying in their faces.

Then, walking out of the darkness, the snow parting like the Red Sea around him, was the dark man. His hat was gone, and they could now see the hideous scars that navigated his bald skull. He was wearing a glove on one hand, a long, red knife held in the other.

“Just give us the ring. Solomon’s ring. Give it to us, and we will let you go.”

Another explosion flashed momentarily in the distance, touching the scene before them and backlighting the man like the demon from hell they knew he must be.

Marcus reached for Ashley’s hand. “Give it to me.”

“What?”

“Give me the ring!”

Reluctantly, she released her hold on it, surrendering it into Marcus’ palm.

The man stopped, scowled. He was thirty feet away, but the storm seemed confined to the space around them…though somehow not
between
them, as if they were in some tunnel, its composition transparent. They could see him clearly and watched as he reached up to pull the sunglasses from his eyes.

Ashley was sure they were about to die, to be dragged into the pit that Marcus’ much-quoted pastor had spent his entire ministry warning about. She knew deep down that to surrender to death wouldn’t stop all this, that it would only prolong the nightmare…forever. Her mind began to fill with scenes of the rape. Only this time, the face of the assailant wasn’t that of the man who had attacked her, but of the glassy-eyed monster standing thirty feet away. He would have her for all of eternity.

She watched, helpless, as he cocked his arm back and then let the knife go. It flew, end over end, straight at her face. She closed her eyes and waited for the warmth of hell to replace this world of ice, waited to feel this monster violate her over and over again on a bed of hot, unquenchable coals. A tear slid down her face, freezing to her cheek, as the lyrics of a Christmas song began permeating in her soul.
Fall on your knees…
“Oh, God,” she whispered.

Thirty

Jacob stares into the mirror, adjusting his tie. He has exchanged the Society’s ceremonial attire for a tuxedo. There is a Christmas Eve gathering he is to attend, guest of the president of the United States. The event has yet to be cancelled due to the inclement weather, though with all that is transpiring, Jacob hopes that it will be. He knows the importance of entertaining kings and queens and does not shun such an opportunity lightly, but the matter at hand is more important than the power of any one man. Still, the meeting with this particular president has been too long in the making to simply blow off. The Society needs to know where things stand with him, whether he will best be used as a willing accomplice or as an ignorant puppet. All indications point to the former, but policy rarely reflects the true heart of the policy maker. Perhaps his globalist agenda is formed in good faith, truly seeking the betterment of mankind. If that is so, if the president is a true utopian, his methods can be used even if his heart is on the other side of the fence. Both sides will eventually lead to the same ultimate conclusion.

A man of tremendous wealth and power in the private sector, Jacob’s secret identity as member of the ancient Order is kept at bay by his public profile. Just as he turns away from the mirror, removing the rings from his fingers one at a time, Stephen barges into the room.

“Tell me the damn party has been cancelled,” Jacob hopes aloud.

Panting and trying to catch his breath, Stephen shakes his head. “Jacob…”

Jacob stops, the chill in his friend’s voice gripping him with an anxiety that is mostly unfamiliar to him. “What is it?”

“They found the Saab stranded in traffic on I-81, just as we hoped.”

“Go on.”

“The ring wasn’t there.”

Jacob squeezes his eyes closed. “Where are the four people?”

Ignoring the question, Stephen stammers through the events that have transpired over that particular stretch of interstate.

“What?” he screams when Stephen mentions the helicopter’s attack on the trapped motorists.

“Police helicopters had just left the airspace after getting a quick look at the situation. The strong winds and blinding snow forced them to back down.”

“What department did we use?”

“Delta.”

Jacob swears. “Terrorist suspect armed with a WMD?”

“Heading for Philadelphia in a stolen Saab.”

Jacob’s mind races through the mess, tries to understand what might possibly make two different pilots decide to open up on stranded citizens. Could Jonathan’s influence over the other dimension be that great without the ring? Or could it be something else entirely? He knows the demons would do such a thing, but even Jesus declared that Satan doesn’t cast out Satan, didn’t he? So… “What about Jonathan?” he asks, ignoring whatever destination his thoughts were approaching.

“A 1971 Camaro was also found stranded a mile or so behind the Saab.”

“This is his doing,” Jacob growls, fists tightening.

“The local authorities have requested help from the National Guard. They’re mobilizing as we speak. After what happened in 2007, they won’t be wasting any time in getting out there once they have a plan of operation.”

“Can Delta’s presence be traced back to us?”

“No, of course not. But if the press puts pressure on the investigation, which they will, it’s going to be hard to spin. How do you explain Delta Force opening fire on hundreds of helpless American citizens?”

“How many helicopters?”

“Three Blackhawks. One crashed and exploded in a nearby field, the two others, as of now, are still lighting up the interstate.”

Jacob sighs. “If it were just one helicopter, we could have the press focus on the pilot. But three helicopters?”