The Demons of King Solomon

by Aaron J. French

“All right, I get it,” I said. “So this Buer was elected? Didn’t know Hell was a democracy.”

  “It’s not,” Yngve said. “We don’t know much about it, but it’s safe to say Hell’s leaders aren’t chosen by popular vote. Lakes of fire aren’t a good way to motivate a constituency.”

  Luke waved his hand at me in a gesture that was annoyingly akin to his mother. “You don’t understand the hierarchy of Hell, Pa. Presidents are way down the list, lower in rank than counts. Lower than knights, even. Being a president of Hell is a big deal overall, but not relatively speaking.”

  My son, weighing the relative merits of Hell’s hierarchy. Not the kind of thing you find in your typical parenting book, now is it?

  “So this Beer ain’t dangerous,” I said. “Do I have that right?”

  “Buer, not beer,” Luke said. “He’s plenty dangerous. He controls fifty legions of lesser demons.” Luke looked at the ham on his fork, seemed surprised to see it there, then ate it, chewing around a big smile.

  I glanced at Yngve.

  “Fifty legions?”

  “About five thousand demon soldiers per legion,” Yngve said.

  I did the math. “So this Buer controls a quarter of a million demons. Yeah, I’d say that’s a bit of a problem. If Buer is in San Francisco, could his legions come through that new fault?”

  “Not without permission,” Luke said. “Buer is a major demon. His legions are lesser demons. Lesser demons need two things to enter the physical plane, Pa—a fault line and permission from the land owner the fault line is on. Good thing, too, otherwise we’d always be dick-deep in demons.”

  I winced at my son’s cursing. Not because it bothered me, so much, but because I knew how mad it made Betty Lou.

  She glared at our youngest son. With her finger and thumb, she made the “OK” symbol, then flicked her finger forward. Ten feet away from her, Luke winced and clutched at his ear.

  “Ow! Ma!”

  “Watch your mouth at my table,” she said.

  I was grateful my own mother hadn’t been a spell caster, or I might have suffered plenty of mystical ear flicks. Sunshine came out of the kitchen carrying a platter with two porcelain cups on it. She’d broken out the fine china for our guest. She set the platter down and placed the first cup in front of Yngve.

  “Here you are, Mister Sjoelset.”

  He took the cup, smiled at her.

  “Thank you, my dear.”

  I saw her eyes widen and her shoulders sag, just a little—she liked it when he called her my dear.

  She picked up the other cup and raised it to her mouth.

  “No you don’t,” Betty Lou said. “Since when do you drink coffee?”

  Sunshine frowned. “Mom, I’m not a little girl anymore.”

  Betty Lou folded her arms.

  “You’re thirteen,” she said. “No coffee until you’re eighteen. I’ve read it’s bad for you.”

  Sunshine stared, brought the cup to her lips. Betty Lou made the “OK” symbol. Sunshine put her cup down so fast a bit of coffee spilled out onto the platter.

  “I ain’t drinking it,” she said. “Just because you see something on the Internet doesn’t mean it’s true, Ma.”

  With that, Sunshine dropped heavily into her chair, arms crossed, frown still on her face—at that moment, she looked just like her mother.

  Yngve defused the awkward situation; he took a sip of coffee, paused, looked at the cup, then smiled at Sunshine and raised his cup slightly. Didn’t matter that she hadn’t made the coffee, she blushed so bright I thought her head might pop.

  “If we’re done with this morning melodrama,” I said, “can we get back to business?”

  Yngve took another sip, then continued.

  “Your son has the general idea,” Yngve said. “Buer’s legions can’t come to the material plane unless they have permission from the owner of the land they wish to occupy. It’s one of the reasons why demons and their ilk spend so much time trying to trick people. This isn’t the first time Buer, or other demons, have tried to trick a leader, but until now, even the worst leaders have been too smart to be duped.”

  My heart sank. “Enter the current candidate.”

  Yngve nodded. “Exactly.”

  Now Yngve’s sudden visit made more sense. The candidate in question was holding a political rally in San Francisco that very night. Yngve ain’t the type to do dangerous field work—the Huntersons are.

  “I was wondering how that man won the nomination,” Betty Lou said. “Considering the horrible things he said about women.”

  “We think Buer helped him,” Yngve said. “But we don’t know why. I need you to go to the rally tonight at the Moscone Center. If Buer appears, find out what’s going on. We need to know before the general election.”

  I supposed I should have known that big city brought big problems. We didn’t have it easy in Slayerville, not by any stretch, but we never faced a president of Hell trying to influence an election.

  “Pa,” Luke said, “wanna see a picture of Buer?”

  He glanced at Betty Lou instead of waiting for an answer from me. The no computers or cell phones at the dining table rule was hers, not mine.

  She sighed. “Go get your laptop.”

  Luke shot out of the chair.

  “Let me get this straight,” I said to Yngve. “This Buer, and probably his guards and whatnot, might be at the rally tonight? Won’t people see them?”

  “Buer is a powerful illusionist,” my boss said. “He can easily hide his minions in plain sight. You’ll need some proper optics to see him. Betty Lou, I’m guessing you can handle that part?”

  She nodded. “I sure can.”

  Luke came tearing into the dining room, laptop in hand.

  “Here he is, Pa!”

  He set the computer in front of me. Not a photo—most demons don’t register on cameras or video—but rather the thick and thin black lines of an etching. For a moment, I thought the picture was a joke, but I know my son well enough to know he wouldn’t be this excited over a gag.

  “That’s him? That’s the President of Hell?”

  Luke nodded. “Crazy looking, ain’t he?”

  Bo and Sunshine came around the table to look over my shoulders at the image.

  “He sure is ugly, Pa,” Bo said. “That a lion’s head? And horse legs?”

  “Goat legs,” Luke corrected. “And yeah, that’s a lion’s head.”

  Bo grunted, impressed. “I bet he’d be a great soccer player.”

  “He ain’t even got no arms,” Sunshine said. “Just… hooves.”

  Buer, high-ranking officer of Hell, was indeed a lion’s head with five goat legs radiating out from behind a thick mane, like a five-finned pinwheel.

  “Bo, Luke, Sunshine, clear the table,” Betty Lou said. “Breakfast is over.”

  Bo and Luke immediately did as they were told. They’re smart enough to be terrified of their mother; Sunshine is not. She sighed heavily, picked up one dish as if it was the heaviest thing in all the world. Betty Lou glared at her. The conflict between mothers and daughters is something I’ll never understand.

  I closed the laptop. “Anything else we need to know, Ing?”

  He took another sip before answering.

  “I’m afraid you know everything we know at this point. I have people at the Protectorate looking for more info. You’ll get whatever we find as soon as we find it.”

  I nodded toward the front door.

  “Then you’d best be going,” I said. “And next time you come to visit? You knock.”

  ***

  For once, Luke didn’t have to stay in the car. That boy is delicate, I tell you. Reminds me of a dried-up stalk of corn in a draught, swaying with the slightest breeze. He’s not made for the physical altercations that are part and parcel of the family business. While that digs at his daddy’s heart—I ain’t proud of my feelings about his weakness, but I won’t lie about them, either—the boy has brains to spare. Bringi
ng him into the Moscone Center with Betty Lou and I was the smart choice.

  And boy-howdy, was Luke excited.

  I haven’t traveled all that much. There was plenty to do back home in Slayerville. Important work. My idea of “traveling for a vacation” meant driving a hundred miles for a weekend in Lexington with Betty Lou. As such, there are still things I see in San Francisco that blow my mind. You could easily fit the entire downtown of Slayerville into the Moscone Center and have plenty of room to spare. Moscone, a wide-open space of glass and metal, crisscrossed escalators, and plenty of people.

  Like I said, I haven’t traveled much, ain’t paid much attention to elections, either. I’ve missed the last two presidential campaigns. I always mean to vote, but eight years ago I was staking out a master vamp. Four years ago, I was laid up thanks to a venom splash from a giant spider.

  Voting’s important, I know. But some things can be more important than voting.

  Betty Lou, Luke and I stood in line with a lot of people who were very excited to get inside and join the event. A lot of white people. As for minorities, there weren’t many among the attendees, but there were plenty of them among the throngs protesting the event. And a lot of people wearing masks. A lot of people waving Mexican flags. A lot of people screaming at us.

  Turns out that by standing in line for a political event, I was: a) a racist, b) a sexist, c) a white supremacist, d) a fascist, e) a misogynist, f) a Nazi (in case “racist” and “white supremacist” didn’t already cover that), g) stupid, and h) every possible variation of the word “fucker” you could conceive of.

  Me, a white supremacist—I guess I brought the wrong son.

  Although, to be honest, while I never gave any truck to that Nazi/supremacist bullshit, I admit I was pretty damn racist in my younger days—I just didn’t know it then. I wasn’t exactly fond of black people. My God-given right to think as I wanted to think, right? Imagine the change in my perspective when a black man saved my life and lost his own in the process. I remember his guts spilling out all over the place, his hand gripping mine, him begging me to take care of his infant son. Spoiler alert: that young son was named “Bo.”

  That changed me. Forever.

  So now I go out of my way to evaluate people one at time, evaluate them on their own merits and actions. I don’t presume to judge entire groups of people I’ve never talked to. Unlike these howling protestors, who seemed to consider themselves as judge, jury, and—if some of them had their way—executioners. The people screaming hate at us were saying that we were the ones propagating hate. It was goddamn strange, I tell you.

  The cops were out in full force. Body armor, shields, masked helmets. Crowds pushing at them. Some protestors went too far in their effort to get at people attending the event, wound up pushing back at the cops. A bad choice; the pushers wound up on the ground beneath a pile of big, uniformed bodies.

  Garbage, rotten eggs, water balloons… anything people could get their hands on became a missile. Red ball caps seemed to be a prize trophy—I saw them snatched off people’s heads, waved about in triumph, doused with lighter fluid and burned in the street.

  No one tried to take my hat. It was just a John Deere cap, sure, but also bullies tend to avoid those that seem likely to whip their ass.

  We even saw attendees being attacked, chased, beaten. The cops didn’t do shit about that, as if they were afraid to break formation and incur the wrath of the mob.

  Insanity.

  Betty Lou watched the madness, scowling.

  “These protestor folks think they’re all righteous and brave,” she said, quietly, so as not to strike up a conversation with the people around us. “They can’t see how this will play on the news? Imagine our friends back home, Hunter, the ones who ain’t sure how they’ll vote. Imagine them watching this, watching people attack those exercising their right to assemble. These protester thugs have no idea their actions will make more people vote for that asshole.”

  Luke shook his head. “No, Ma. These people are marginalized. They have to do something to express their emotions. We’re learning about that in school.”

  “Enough politics,” I said, quietly but firmly. “Let’s all keep our eyes open in case this violence engulfs us, too.”

  The last thing I needed at that moment was my red-state Generation X wife in a heated debate with my Millennial son who was being educated in an ultra-liberal school district.

  Fortunately, the line moved along and we didn’t have any direct altercations with the massed protestors, most of whom, it seemed, weren’t that much older than Luke.

  The Netherworld Protectorate has some serious connections. Our passes got us floor seats, off to the right side of the main stage. We were surrounded by lots of bigwigs with suits, red ties and red ball caps, women in red dresses, people waving American flags and flapping campaign signs that were being handed out when we walked through the door.

  The place was packed. Thousands of people. I’m not sure if many of them were drunk or just acting like it, caught up in the moment. These attendees were just regular folks, probably unaware of the evil in their midst.

  I listened in on the conversations around me. People were mad about high taxes, about healthcare, about illegal immigrants taking away jobs, about illegal immigrants getting “free stuff,” about welfare, and—most of all—about the “goddamn liberals ruining this country.”

  There was hate outside the convention center, sure, but plenty of hate inside as well—particularly hate against the Democratic candidate. I heard more about “emails” and the “cultural elites” in passing than I cared to, I’ll tell you that one for free.

  Overall, these people were just as mad as the protestors outside. It’s not that I didn’t get why. Since moving to San Francisco, I’ve been more exposed to some of the blowback against white people. Everywhere you turn, it seems, the media is telling you you’re a horrible person just because of the color of your skin, or your sexual identification. Until we moved here, I wasn’t aware that the “Cis-Het Straight White Men” were responsible for all the world’s evils. Judging someone on their skin color and genitalia is supposed to be a bad thing, ain’t it?

  You can only tell people they are awful, evil and stupid for so long before they embrace those things as badges of honor. We’ve seen that time and time again with the various immigrant ethnicities that moved here looking for something better, and those whose ancestors were brought here against their will.

  To be honest, it’s been frustrating to watch. My pappy had a phrase he taught us to live by. A variation on the Golden Rule, I suppose, but it was quite simple: if it’s wrong for me to do it to you, it’s wrong for you to do it to me.

  In other words, if you keep telling people they’re evil because they don’t think like you do, don’t be surprised if they make choices just to spite you—whether that choice is good for them or not. That’s the way I view it.

  We reached our seats. We’d missed most of the speakers—the candidate himself was due up next. You could feel the energy in the room. It was like being in church, except instead of waiting for the pastor to begin you were waiting for Jesus himself to show up and start passing out blessings.

  I’m guessing the Democratic National Convention was the same way, but still… kind of chilling.

  “Pa,” Luke said, “I still don’t see any demons.”

  Betty Lou flicked his ear, a lightning-fast, well-practiced move.

  “Ow!” Luke glared at her. “What was that for?”

  “We told you to keep quiet about those things,” she said through clenched teeth and a fake smile. “There are people all around us.”

  Luke rubbed at his ear. “Sorry, I forgot. But still, shouldn’t we see something?”

  Betty Lou dug in her oversized purse.

  “I charmed up some sunglasses for us. We should be able to see Buer and any cronies of his even if they’re invisible to everyone else.”

  “Like in that movie,” I sai
d. “The one with Rowdy Roddy Piper.”

  Luke’s face wrinkled. “Who?”

  Betty Lou shook her head as she clawed past costume jewelry, hair brushes, makeup, compacts, tissues and the seventeen hundred mysterious things women keep in their bags.

  “Hunter, we’ve been neglecting this boy’s proper education,” she said. “He’s never seen They Live?”

  “Movie night,” I said. “For that movie, I bet we can even get our lazy-ass eldest son out of the basement.”

  She found a pair of small black sunglasses, gave them to Luke.

  “Your eldest son has a name,” Betty Lou said. “It’s Billy Mac. I didn’t spend thirty-six hours in labor so you could refer to your seed as lazy-ass.”Luke put his sunglasses on. They were just a bit too big for his skinny face, but they looked good on him.

  Betty Lou handed me a pair of sunglasses. I stared at them.

  “You got to be kidding me,” I said.

  She sighed. “Hunter, don’t be a baby. Put them on.”

  I held them up for her to see, as if she hadn’t just handed them to me.

  “You want me to wear these?”

  Each blue-tinted lens was round and half the size of my face. The cheap plastic felt like it might snap if I moved too quickly. Worst of all, the frames were pink.

  “It’s all I had,” Betty Lou said. “I didn’t have time to go shopping for Ray Ben’s or anything, now did I?”

  “Ray-Bans,” Luke corrected.

  I looked at the frames, as if by doing so they might change into something more palatable.

  “But these are for women,” I said.

  Luke laughed. “Come on, Pa, you were the best man at a gay ghost’s wedding and you’re still not comfortable with your masculinity?”

  “Keep flapping your gums, son,” I said, “and I’ll show you masculinity.”Luke laughed harder, shook his head. “That sounds a lot different than you mean it to, Pa. Especially when you’re wearing pink sunglasses.”

  Betty Lou hit him with another lightning-strike ear flick.

  “Ow… Ma!”

  “Don’t disrespect your father,” she said. Then she turned to me. “The boy needs an attitude adjustment, but he’s right, Hunter—I thought you’d learned something at that wedding.”