Chapter Eleven
I close the windows and the curtains and make sure the door to my bedroom is locked before I even think of looking inside the messenger bag. It took nearly all the willpower I had not to run into the bathroom of the store we hunkered in for a couple of hours while Cat and Dham played an endless game of gin rummy and open up the bag just to see what those Resistance men had been carrying. But I'm finally back at the boarding house where I have some privacy. It feels like it should be dawn soon but the clock still reads that it is before midnight. I want to get at least a cursory look in before exhaustion claims me.
I turn on the small bedside lamp and sit on the bed. First I examine the bag closely. It's scuffed dark brown leather—very soft--looking well worn and almost colorless in spots. It has two buckles on it, but those are for adornment only; the buckles hide magnetic snaps that hold the flap closed. It looks like something a university prof would carry to class rather than something a Resistance member would be toting around. But maybe that's the point.
I see nothing else of note on the outside—no wardings or sigils or anything else that indicates protection on the bag—so I pop open the snaps and fold the front back to get into the bag's interior pockets. It's divided into two compartments and both are filled with papers. I reach in and pull out one of the stacks and begin to sift through it. The contents are mostly maps, directions, stubs of receipts. There are a few pages written in what looks like Italian. I set these aside.
I pull out the rest of the articles in the bag. I spread everything on the bed, then drop my head in my hands. What am I doing? What am I thinking? I should have taken this bag directly to Ryland; there might be something in here that is vital to his plans. I have an obligation, a responsibility, to protect the Resistance.
But don't I also have an obligation to Patrick? What if there's something in here that might help him? Something that Ryland won't ever let me see? I turn back to the pages, my jaw clenched. Ryland betrayed my trust. Do I really owe him anything after that?
More paper to thumb through, most of it gibberish to me. I do see a list of names and locations; it looks like a list of safe houses in cities throughout Europe. If that's the case, then I'm very glad this didn't fall into Inquisition hands. I take another handful of pages, planning to glance through them, but beneath those papers is a book. I put the stack off to the side and stare.
The book is small, perhaps the size of a journal, bound in brown leather and fastened with leather string and closed with a frog and loop clasp. I work the stiff stuff loose, afraid that the leather has grown brittle from disuse. It finally comes free and I carefully open the book, unsure of what I'll find inside.
The pages are yellowed but in surprisingly good condition, only fraying a little at the edges where the cover didn't protect them well enough. I flip through carefully, feeling the smooth paper with my fingertips. It's heavy paper, not like parchment, and seems to have held up well. I'm not sure how old this journal is, but there seems to be some age to it.
I come to the first page with writing on it. The handwriting is bold and scrawling, written in heavy black ink. It's hard to make out the words of the script at first, but then I realize it is in English, but the handwriting made it difficult to make out. I pull the book closer to the bedside light and try to make sense of the words.
"The Key of Solomon the King," I read in a low voice. I skip over the presumably Latin subtext and go on to the next line. "As first translated and edited by S. Liddell MacGregor Mathers. 1888."
I sit up, stunned. Obviously this journal didn't come from 1888, but it looked to be a copy—hand done—of the translation of the Key of Solomon. Whatever that was. The only Solomon I ever heard of was the wise king Solomon from the Bible. It couldn't be that guy, could it? And how was a book a key anyway?
I flip the next page and feel my breath catch in my throat. Drawn with painstaking detail is a Grand Pentacle, like the ones in the room where my mother had been taken. I quickly turn the page again, hoping for some explanation of what this book is. My eyes devour the words on each page, flashing through the lines of writing, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing. After a few pages, I look out at nothing, my brain processing the words I've read to understand exactly what I hold in my hand.
I've apparently intercepted a book of Qabalistic magic that specifically details how King Solomon—yes, that King Solomon—summoned and controlled spirits. Demons.
Of course he did. Bollocks.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady hands that are now trembling. I will not be giving this to Ryland, at least not until I have a better idea of what exactly I'll be giving away. There might be something in here that could help me free Patrick when I find him.
I grow still, as a thought washes over me like ice water. Why on earth would the Resistance risk transporting something so dangerous? These kinds of books are outlawed and any person found with one is punished horribly before finally being executed. The Inquisition had confiscated all magical texts long ago, locking away or destroying anything that could be used to banish demons. The Ritual Romanum, the codex of the Catholic Church that contained the rites of exorcism, had been summarily put to the torch, as had many Jewish, Hindu, and Muslim spiritual books. Bootleg copies of arcane texts still abounded, but the Inquisition hunted them—and their owners—down without mercy.
So how did this copy of the Key of Solomon come to be in London? And why was it brought here to begin with?
I'm startled by my jaw-cracking yawn. The adrenaline of the chase and subsequent hiding has worn off and I feel done in. I kick off my shoes and lay back, the book in my hands. I should be able to read a few more pages before I really can't stay awake any longer. I prop up my pillows in their normal reading configuration. I shuck off denims and jacket, and only clad in a t-shirt, I climb into bed.
I have the best of intentions. But once my head hit the pillow, all thoughts of demons, Solomon, books, magic, and the Inquisition are forgotten in favor of deep, dreamless sleep.
The Iron Bells Page 12
