He ran a pale hand over the cover, studying the eerie, hideous, and mesmerizing image of a pornographic, Signorelli-type Hell drawn with typical Jesuit overcrowding.
Demons leaped and danced, some crushing underfoot naked women who had snakes crawling into their wombs. Men were bent and tortured with other demons crawling up their backs, purple faces distorted in a rictus of evil pleasure. Above the deeply penetrating scene, fierce angels royally dressed in medieval armor held burning swords to guard a majestic, sky-swept gateway.
Aveling realized that it was not the original cover for the millenniums-old book. Nor was this the original book itself, though it was written in old Hebrew. No, he was certain, the original cover had glorified the power and place cursed by this one.
Feeling his heart quicken in fear, Aveling slowly opened it and beheld images made by those original masters of sorcery that had penned the manuscript. He saw winged demons flying naked against a blood-red moon, a truly magnificent city—Pandemonium, the capital of Hell—built on a mountain of iron. Then there was the image of a titanic winged figure seated upon a lordly throne of granite, his great, six-fingered left hand extended over worshipping figures, each of formidable strength. The imperial face was the face of infinite pride, infinite will, endless strength.
Prince of the Air. . .
Aveling’s hand trembled as he turned the page, and another.
And another.
***
It was sunset when Soloman found Marcelle talking on the phone in a secret antechamber located behind a confessional. Nothing could be heard on the other side of the thick stone wall.
Soloman had already determined that they were secured in some secret part of the church, a place of hidden entrances and narrow corridors built into the edifice so long ago.
It was a place of unseen wars and unseen dominions, and Soloman wondered how many times it had been used in two centuries. But he felt confident they wouldn't be discovered, for even the parishioners, he suspected, were unaware of this isolated domain.
Waiting patiently until Marcelle hung up, Soloman noticed that the priest seemed agitated. Not looking at Soloman as he took a short step, strolling as he always strolled while thinking, Marcelle lit a cigarette. Clearly he was pondering something of consequence.
"So what else is there, Marcelle?"
A troubled wave. "Two police officers were killed this morning at a condemned building in Elizabeth, not far from here. According to the media, who are still zealously pursuing the carnage at the sanatorium in Los Angeles, their blood was drained."
Soloman rose, pointing at the wall. "This is Cain, Marcelle!"
"Yes! Of course! But what advantage does it give us?"
Turning away, Soloman considered it a long time. "Cain had to hide so he could heal. And if he had to kill those two cops for blood, then he hasn't killed Amy yet. We can conclude that much." He leaned heavily on a desk. "You said that Cain needed both Amy and The Grimorium Verum for a sacrifice. Now he has them. So what is he doing? Where is he going? The answer lies somewhere in that vault."
Marcelle looked down and sighed. "Yes, we are certain of that. But there were so many documents." He shook his head in dismay. "Inventory is so—"
The phone rang.
Marcelle answered. "Aveling! Yes, it is I … Yes, we are fine." He listened, amazed. "Are you certain of this? Yes! This is excellent, Eminence! And you know more? What? Are you certain? Very good, Father ... Yes, of course we will be here."
He hung up.
Soloman scowled. "What?"
The priest was electrified. "Aveling believes that he may solve the mystery before tonight." He paced as he spoke his next words. "He has read the last surviving copy of the Grimorium Verum and he has found the spell that Cain intends to invoke. Now he knows the exact type of place that Cain needs in order to complete the conjuration. There are approximately one hundred documents in the Archives granting deeds to land with like qualities. But this will speed up the process immensely."
"So what kind of land does Cain need?"
He made a vague gesture. "It must be underground and near the sea for the power of salt water, which represents Hell. It must be made from hand-hewn granite to keep the conjurer close to the center of the Earth, and there must be fresh water flowing beneath it, representing the human soul. It must also be built on ground strong with copper, for magnetic effect. So, yes! This narrows the list considerably!"
"Look, Marcelle." Soloman was growing angry. "We have to move faster on this! We have to intercept Cain before he gets to this place or we'll be fighting him on the ground, and maybe even on the night, that he's strongest."
"It will be a fiendish thing," the priest replied, scowling. "But we are finally closing in on this mystery, I believe."
"Yeah? How close?"
Marcelle stopped pacing and stared.
"Close enough to kill or be killed, Colonel."
***
Maggie appeared far more focused as Soloman re-entered the room. The bandage on her arm was white; the bleeding had finally stopped. She looked up with a forgiving, or a forgiven, smile and Soloman returned the same.
He felt his heart reach out and was surprised that he was so glad to see her again after just an hour. He knew what was happening and he couldn't stop it, but then he didn’t feel any inclination to stop it, anymore. He was going to give himself to this – if Maggie would have him.
But, for now, there was business.
"We've got something," he said, reflexively grasping her hands as she reached out. "I think we've got an idea where he's going. We might even be able to intercept him before he gets there, if we're lucky."
"Where, Sol? Where's he going?"
"We ... We don't know yet," he replied, seeing the immediate rise of pain in her eyes. "Not exactly, Maggie. But we're closer. A lot closer. We might even have an answer tonight."
Soloman didn't really know how it happened but he knew from experience that it usually happened like that. One moment they were close and excited, and next they were locked in an embrace as passionate as anything he had ever known.
He felt emotion explode in his heart, spiraling through his arms as they tightened around her figure. Kisses were exchanged in an explosive surrendering of flesh before they separated slightly and stared into each other's eyes.
"Soloman." She grasped his hand resting firmly on her neck. "Please get Amy back for me ..."
He nodded hard. "I'm going to get her back."
"And then?"
His face went cold.
"Then I'm gonna kill him."
***
Moving quickly, hurling ancient documents that held inestimable value haphazardly to the cement floor, Aveling and Father Barth flew through the vault of the Secret Archives.
"This hidden place must be of copper and granite? And old, yes?" Barth hesitated with a document in his hand.
"It must be ancient!" Aveling moved with eyes that darted from shelf to shelf. "And yes! It must be of granite! It must be located by the sea. It will not be in this country." He paused at a document, tossed it. "I feel it will be in northern England, though there is no way to know for certain. But that is the ancient land of Druidic power and this spell is somehow linked to Samhain, so there must be a connection."
"Perhaps somewhere in Flamborough or Hunstanton?"
"No!" Aveling's emotions suddenly flared. "Those coasts are recent additions to the country and devoid of metal! They are products of glacial waste. No, this place will be older and stronger. It could possibly be upon an isolated coast of Northumberland."
"Of course!" responded Barth, caught up.
Moving fast, their concentration and keenness of mind making lies of their years, they went through the documents like lightning as the Librarian Superior checked off each deed thrown, barely able to search the list and find it before he was fiercely hurled another.
***
"I need weapons, Marcelle."
Soloman's tone ind
icated that he was not in any mood for complications. He wanted weapons, he wanted them now, and he wasn't taking any crap about the difficulties of obtaining them.
Concentrating, Marcelle looked about, as if he had never confronted the problem. He studied it a long time before he whispered, "It ... ah, we've never had to obtain weapons, Soloman. That could present difficult problems that, uh ... Perhaps I could—"
"Your people don’t have access to weapons?" Soloman was incredulous. "You've got jets and boats and all the money in the world and you don't have any access to weapons?"
"Weapons, ah, are not our specialty," Marcelle said frankly, gazing away. "But I am certain that I can get you some weapons if we can only ... find a way to—"
"Damn, Marcelle! I don't have time for this!"
Soloman picked up the phone and dialed the Armory at Fort Bragg, asking for Chatwell. He gave them an on-the-spot yarn about being an AD with the FBI, about wanting recommendations for new 9-mm semi-autos. Then there was a suspiciously long pause, a faint click, and Chatwell came on.
"This is Sergeant Chatwell."
Soloman suspected that the line wasn't secure.
"Chatwell, it's Colonel Soloman."
An unemotional pause. "Yes, sir?"
Soloman hadn't been completely certain until he heard the voice: "Look, Chatwell, I know now that you're under base arrest because they figured I'd be pulling something like this, so this isn't for you. It's for them!" He released some long-withheld anger, counting seconds against a trace. "You can't stop me! You couldn't stop me before and you can't stop me now!"
He hung up, turned to Marcelle. "Well ..." He paused a moment. "Looks like I'll have to do it myself."
"We don't have much time, Soloman."
Soloman moved for the door.
"I'm in a killing mode, Marcelle. I don't need much time."
***
Archette expected a more laudatory reception at the Long Island manor, for Soloman had been effectively eliminated, Cain had been flown to England with the child, and The Circle had accompanied him for protection. He did not understand the frown on Lazarus's face.
Staring down at the ancient table, concentrating, the white-haired man had not moved. His fingers rested on a Rune card that had been there when Archette entered. It lay face-up amidst burning black candles and Lazarus had not taken his eyes from it, nor from three others laid in a tight square.
"Lazarus?" Archette ventured, made extremely cautious by the poised concentration. "Did you hear my words?"
"I understand your words, and I understand more," Lazarus murmured, pausing. "Tell me, Archette. You said that Colonel Soloman has been eliminated. That is good. I commend you for your faithfulness. But tell me, what of this priest?"
"The priest?"
"Yes. This Jesuit priest. Has he also been eliminated?"
"I don't understand, Lazarus. The priest was merely an adviser to Soloman. Soloman alone had the resources for interfering with our dreams. The priest ... he is only a priest."
Lazarus shook his head as if the statement did not merit his attention. His mouth tightened as he cryptically turned a card on the table for Archette to see. "Do you understand this card?" he asked quietly.
Archette stepped forward, staring down. He saw four cards laid face-up, each pointing in a different direction; north, south, east, and west. They were Disruption, Warrior, Flow, and Movement. Archette did not know how to interpret them, and managed, "Perhaps you should explain, Lazarus. I do not read the Runes."
"Neither does our Lord," Lazarus said. "Runes have no more association with his power than Tarot reading or the interpretation of stars. But sometimes ... they reveal truth."
"What do you mean?" Archette asked.
"This"—Lazarus lowered his face toward Disruption—"reveals the release of elemental and chaotic forces on the Earth. It signifies the archetypal mind strong beyond measure. Then, there is Warrior. It is a spiritual symbol. It falls to the opposite of Disruption." He frowned. "Then there is Flow, which signifies that a great change is about to occur. And to the North, standing upright, there is ... Movement."
"I am not familiar with this card."
Lazarus answered slowly with a scowl. "When Movement stands upright in the North it is the most powerful of all Runes. It means that a great and mighty power is present – a power that nourishes and heals. It means that a force beyond any other ... has arisen to enter the fight."
Archette shook his head, perceiving. "But if you had seen his eyes, Lazarus, then you would know! He can't be defeated! Nothing can defeat him! It is like looking into the eyes of God!"
With a faint trembling Lazarus turned Movement face down.
"There is another," he said somberly.
*
CHAPTER 22
It was midnight and Soloman crouched low on the roof of a building on East 83rd Street in New York City, watching as the proprietor closed the NYC Gun Shop.
Soloman waited one minute before he moved.
In seconds he reached the fire escape and descended, moving fast to slide down the ladder and hit the ground hard. Roving eyes alert to everything and everyone, he walked slowly up the alley and across the street. Then he strolled down the adjoining alley where he moved behind the gun shop, checking for tramps or vagrants or witnesses. But there was only an old wino collapsed in a cardboard box.
Soloman moved past him without a sound, knowing that no plan was perfect but not wanting to hurt anyone. In seconds he was at the back door and took a small grappling hook that he'd bought from a military surplus store. He whirled it and threw high and then he was climbing, gaining the roof, staying low. He pulled the rope up behind him, just as he'd been trained to do.
He drew the Cold Steel tanto, the only weapon he'd managed to retain during the long conflict, and moved behind the heating unit to stab the tarmac savagely. He drove the quarter-inch-thick blade through the tar and drew it hard, carving a line. Then he hit it over and over and finally reached the wood. At that, he took out the small saw and with meticulous concentration cut a hole in the roof.
For certain, he knew without even looking that the gun shop was wired to the hilt. All of them were. It would have door alarms and window vibration alarms and motion detectors and everything else that high-tech security could provide. But Soloman knew there was always a way.
He blinked sweat from his eyes, breathless, refusing to surrender to the exhausting expenditure of physical strength required for the task. Finally, he managed to cut a narrow manhole. He gazed down at pink insulation and a layer of board beneath, the ceiling.
Without hesitation he slid into the hole, enduring the stinging sensation, out of sight. Then, turning on a small flashlight, he turned in the tightness and crawled until he found where the electrical units were tied into the breaker box, which was located downstairs.
Now for the difficult part.
He studied the wires until he found one of the phone lines, lines normally used for alarms. He couldn't reach the alarm system itself because it was inside the building, but he could reach this.
He took out the tanto and placed the wire against a two-by-four, cutting it as the alarm hit hard. With a sigh Soloman bowed his head, knowing this was the moment that would determine the rest of his life. If he failed in this, he would be in prison forever. Federal authorities, already afraid of him, would come up with anything it took to keep him behind bars.
He waited for a sweating, trembling twenty minutes until he heard voices outside the building. But he understood cops just as well as he understood alarms. He knew that no cop was going to waste energy crawling on top of a building to see if someone had cut a hole in the roof.
They answered twenty of these a night and most of them were triggered by wind-rattled windows or punks throwing rocks.
After another ten minutes, with no lights shining through the hole in the tarmac, Soloman knew he was safe. They had checked the building and found it secure. There were no windows broken, t
he doors were shut tight, the fire escape was high, and there was no damage visible. NYPD had decided that everything was locked down. Checking the roof was beyond the pale for cops who simply wanted to get to the end of their shift in one piece.
Soloman knew he'd have less than two minutes after he hit the floor to find what he needed. The motion detectors inside would find him to set off a second alarm on an alternate phone line so he'd have to be in and out, forgetting ammunition if he was short on time. But that was tolerable. He could pick up ammunition later, if necessary.
First and foremost, he'd have to find the weapons he needed to take Cain to the ground. Then he'd have to make it to the LTD and clear the area before a pissed-off NYPD cop checked the alarm a second time.
He moved on it.
With a violent move he kicked out the plaster ceiling and descended hard, landing on a display case that shattered spectacularly at the impact, and then he was rolling, frantically trying to avoid splintered glass. But as he gained his feet he saw blood. He didn't know where he was cut but knew by feel that it wasn't serious. Breathing hard, he scanned the wall and saw instantly what he needed.
A Bennelli .10-gauge shotgun was displayed, locked by a steel cord that ran down the wall. Good enough. Soloman glared at the glass display case and his eyes locked on the large-caliber handguns.
He identified a .50-caliber Grizzly semiautomatic, one of the most powerful handguns in the world. Instantly he shattered the case, removing it. Then he leaped over the counter and placed the tanto against the steel cord that secured the shotguns, pressing down with desperate strength.
There was a long straining moment and Soloman watched steel thread severed by steel thread until the cord parted. He immediately lifted the Bennelli and took five seconds to find two boxes of .50-caliber ammunition and .10-gauge double-ought buckshot from behind the counter, a dozen magazines. He threw all of it in a duffle bag and leaped over the case, angling fast for the display of black powder.
He moved fast, leaping the counter again. And in another moment he'd loaded everything he needed and was at the front door, forsaking stealth. He only had thirty seconds before police arrived, using the dependable two-minute time limit.
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