THE DEMON SIGNET
a novel
by
SHAWN HOPKINS
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are either a work of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2013 Shawn Hopkins
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means without the written consent of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Dedication
To Kenny
Prologue
He isn’t sure where he’s going. He doesn’t care. Randomness—pure reflexive action based on nothing but split-second, moment-to-moment decisions—is the key. If there is no reason for why he is going to wherever he is going, no conscious directive guiding his decisions, then certainly his actions will forever remain a secret.
At least, that’s the idea.
He would much rather destroy the thing and be done with it. But thousands of years worth of history have already gathered within the courts of reason and sentenced such a notion as utterly futile. For whatever reason, universal laws have been rendered obsolete by an even greater degree of cosmic engineering, ensuring the relic’s indestructibility.
His only option is to hide it.
But though conventional wisdom would perhaps suggest the bottom of the ocean to be the most suitable spot for the task, legend has already declared that particular location unacceptable. And it is because of such stories that he now wonders if his mission could have been doomed from the start. For if the ocean itself is not an adequate hiding place, where else on the planet could it be safe from both human and supra-human reach? He supposes there is no place hidden from the latter, but if the latter should require the participation of the former in order to retrieve it… No. He recalls from the legends that only a fish had been required. A damn fish.
The thought is like a skewer through his conscious, and it draws blood from an entirely different dilemma, the uncertainty as to whether he is working for the sake of righteousness (as he prays he is) or whether it’s the mission of hell he has taken as his own.
The barren highway races toward him, and he reaches forward to turn on the radio, hoping that its music might distract him from the spiritual conflict now raging in his soul.
A Christmas song plays through the small speakers of the rented Ford Taurus, a heavy blanket of static trying to strangle its lyrics. The bad reception complements the vast emptiness surrounding him, the still landscape buried eerily beneath a deep layer of snow. He doesn’t know where he is, has in fact made it a point not to know, because if he doesn’t know where he is, how can anyone else?
“…Oh, h--y nigh-
The stars are ---ly shi----
----s the nigh--- our dear Savior’s bir--”
The wintery scene stretching out beyond the salt-stained windshield erupts to life, seemingly spurred into abrupt animation by the song itself. Not with scarfed snowmen waving three-fingered branches in yuletide glee, not with cute critters with bushy tails caroling beside the frozen rode, and not with a line of reindeer pulling a fat man behind a glowing red beacon. These white, wooded hills suddenly morph into something much more sinister. And though he wishes to believe it’s only his imagination, he knows he cannot blame this on his mind, no matter how disturbed the whole ordeal has made it. Something has once again summoned the presence of the multidimensional, and dark, tangled wisps of many ethereal bodies are now skittering in and out of his field of vision. If the song has signaled Lucifer’s agents to come fulfill what Herod could not, to prevent the Savior’s maturation, then they can chase after the rental car for all eternity without ever finding themselves one day closer to that star-lit, Bethlehem sky. But the song has nothing to do with his sudden company. It is the relic that has brought them hurdling over the boundaries between the two worlds, and the mission they’re on is not so unachievable.
“Fall o- --r knees--”
Joab had done that two years ago, fallen on his knees. It had been his “Damascus experience,” everything about him changing in a mere instant. And since that moment of peculiar transformation, he had known this time would come, what his mission had to be. But even as he carries it out now, he wonders again if perhaps he had been deceived from the start. How did the saying go? You don’t know you’re deceived until you’re not? Or perhaps it isn’t deception, but rather the Enemy’s sowing of doubt, fear, and…temptation.
He grimaces and tells himself that it’s natural to be tempted, even with the Spirit’s indwelling. Christ, too, was tempted in the wilderness. He deceives himself, however, by thinking that temptation itself is the critical issue, and the Epistle of James charges into the ongoing fray with such a revelation. Each one is tempted when, by his own evil desire, he is dragged away and enticed. Then, after desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, gives birth to death.
One of the dark shadows leaps out of the snow with an unearthly roar, its mystical shape indiscernible against the twilight. Like a rabid jungle cat from some alien planet, it races beside the car, watching him with a single yellow eye. And though he knows it’s pointless, he presses harder against the accelerator.
He begins to whisper the Apostle Paul’s words. “‘…For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out. For what I do is not the good that I want to do…’” He recognizes his rambling as an attempt toward absolution and forgiveness, but at the same time he knows that forgiveness may not negate the necessary consequences of his sin. Then, after desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, gives birth to death.
“-O-, night-
--en Christ --s born-”
He wipes sweat from his forehead while stealing a glance out the window beside him. The creature is no longer keeping pace with him. “‘…No, the evil that I do not want to do—this I keep doing…” His lips quiver, his eyes filling with the bitter waters of repentance. “‘…So I find this law at work: When I want to do good, evil is right there with me! For in my inner being I delight in God’s law; but I see another law at work in the members of my body, waging war against the law of my mind and making me a prisoner of the law of sin at work within my members! Who will rescue me from this body of death?’”
“H-- law is love --- H-- gosp-- is peace
Chains shall he break- -or th- sla-- is ou- broth--”
A dragon sweeps up from out of the blacktop ahead, spreading its wings in peacock fashion above its head. The sunlight behind it fills the pink leathery expanse with hues of red and orange, setting the bat wings on fire with moving colors. Its mouth opens to reveal hundreds of serrated daggers, a black tongue slipping out from between them and dangling like a python with a forked tongue of its own. The man screams out as his vehicle is enveloped by the folded wingspan and the interior of the car is plunged into darkness, the winding road suddenly invisible.
There is no time to contemplate what is happening, to ponder its meaning, and impulse alone makes him strike the Christmas song from the airwaves with a thrust of his finger. Purged with silence, the infernal obstruction that was draped across the windshield disappears.
The sedan is left once more to the lonely landscape, hell’s fiends exiting through whatever door it was they’d first come. But it’s a screen door, and one through which they’ll be maintaining their surveillance of him, he is sure. He wonders again whether or not the flesh-and-blood servants of these shapeless monsters might be in communication with their spiritual masters. If so, then randomness is pointless, his physical pursuers aware of his location from a multidimensional feed completely beyond his ability to elude.
After another twenty miles, a
small road emerges on his right, stretching away into the dark void of snow-covered pines.
Randomness. It’s still his only chance.
He turns the wheel and leaves the highway.
Bouncing over the uneven road, he’s swallowed by the shadows and forced to turn on the headlights. He sends the two beams out searching for a destination that is unknown to him, relying on mere moment-to-moment feeling rather than some knowledge-based set of objectives.
He pauses, suddenly detecting what could be a fatal flaw in his logic.
It is not randomness that is directing him…but his feelings. The subtle revelation brings with it the obvious question of whether or not his feelings are, or even can be random. He should be relying on a coin or some other instrument of chance for such decisions, and he’s haunted by the possibility that the very psychological makeup he’s tried to keep out of the equation is what has been plotting his course all along.
He pulls alongside a recently plowed dirt road and parks. He sits there a moment, shaking. He can’t lose the thought that he’s being led, not by God or mere chance, but—
No, that possibility is too frightening to acknowledge, and he tries to ignore it as he gathers himself and steps out of the car. Standing, he reaches into his pocket and touches the object he spent two years plotting to steal, hoping it might strengthen him in some way. Maybe he can bury it in the woods. No one would ever find it there, or at least they shouldn’t. After a few minutes of walking, however, he spots a cabin. Something tells him he should go into it, though he doesn’t know why. Could it be the “angels’ voices,” an actual conviction born of some spiritual awareness that now leads his steps? Or is the thing in his pocket controlling him?
The property surrounding the cabin rests beneath a sheet of untouched snow. The place seems vacant, no lights, no sounds, no smoke rising from the chimney.
His feet crunch through the icy snow, and he takes three wooden steps up to the door, each one bending audibly beneath his weight. He knocks, not knowing why.
There is no response.
He tries the door, and it swings open on creaking hinges. Darkness stares at him, an emptiness that is as much a mystery as is his being here. He steps in. Walking through the cold blackness, the floorboards singing out of tune beneath him, he rounds a bend and comes within view of a window. He can see through it and into the back woods beyond.
Two sets of footprints are stamped into the snow, coming from the woods and violating the still portrait.
He is not alone.
No.
The unmistakable sound of a match being struck startles him, and light and darkness are suddenly battling across the cabin walls.
No.
He doesn’t turn. He doesn’t need to. He knows who they are and why they are here, even if it doesn’t make any sense as to how they could have found him.
That isn’t exactly accurate, though, because they didn’t simply find him. They somehow anticipated him. But if his decisions were random, how could they have predicted that he would be here? Even if his psychological makeup could be unlocked by some top secret NSA profiling technology, it couldn’t account for the agents here now…ahead of him. Not unless they came from the future—or had seen the future. He hadn’t thought of that.
He watches the distinct shadow of a man begin dancing on the wall in front of him and can see in the reflection of the window that there are two men standing behind him. One of them is stepping forward, blocking the light from the match still held in the hand of the other.
“Joab,” the moving man says.
“How did you find me?” he asks, reaching slowly into his pocket.
Neither of them answers his question.
Slowly, he begins to understand, to realize that this little trip of his was anything but random. That these men are not from the future any more than they are here because of a CIA mind-reading program. That his feelings had nothing to do with his arrival here at all.
As the shadow on the wall moves in sync with the scene unfolding across the frosted window, an arm is raised. Though the shadow portrays only an exaggerated finger being pointed, the reflection reveals the horrible truth. A sound-suppressed .22 caliber pistol. The tool of an assassin.
Joab stiffens, waiting for the impact while whispering a desperate prayer.
The match burns out.
Darkness envelops the house again.
Not taking a moment to think, he sprints toward the window, the object now clutched in his hand. He launches himself through the glass, landing in the snow below. A burning line leaks across his forehead as he struggles to his feet and takes off into the woods, back to the rental car.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, he fumbles with the keys before finally getting the engine turned over. He flicks the headlights on, throws the car in drive, and slams on the gas. Snow, dirt, and gravel shoot into the air behind him.
He’s back on the highway a minute later, the fading sun sinking orange behind the distant mountains that stand across the horizon.
Half an hour passes before his breathing returns to normal and his heart seems content to remain within his chest. He swears out loud, not caring to repent. If his moves are being orchestrated, which he now knows they are, what option does he have? He takes the thing out of his pocket and holds it up to the sinking fireball that is the center of his planet’s solar system.
The bronze ring twinkles as it absorbs the sun, fiery hues swimming in circles through its band. Far from filling him with a sense of purpose, it now infuses him with such a terrifying sense of damnation that he almost throws it out the window just to escape the guilt of it.
He shouldn’t have put it on.
He had known better. His flesh was weaker than he thought. To think he could handle the power, that he would be judged as righteous, was nothing but pride. And God hates pride. He begins to doubt the genuineness of his salvation, of the experience that had surrendered him to the Light in the first place. He’d chosen to believe that the demonic manifestations were being caused simply by having the ring in his possession, but he now realizes that they were conjured as a result of his corrupt body violating its bronze sphere. He’d been judged by the ring as unworthy and had thus become theirs…an instrument of hell, the sport of idols and demons that Solomon had warned of in his writings, as did the Templar who later found it buried beneath the Temple Mount. He should have avoided wearing the ring as he would have avoided walking through a portal to hell…which, in a sense, was exactly what the ring was. For most.
He’d been aware of the temptation he knew would try overtaking him, but to leave the ring in the possession of the Society was unthinkable. He had to take the risk, even if it meant giving into its power and falling for the very lie that had deceived Eve in the garden. He was doing it for the world, for its future, and hadn’t the Apostle Paul said that he would gladly go to hell himself if by doing so it would save his people? Wasn’t that what he was doing? Maybe, then, God would be gracious and acknowledge the sacrifice he’d made…what it had truly cost him.
Five hours later, he checks himself into a motel.
Standing in front of the mirror, leaning against the sink, he stares into his reflection, trying to detect anything different within his eyes, but he notices nothing but fear-ridden hopelessness swimming laps around the black circles of his pupils. His fifty-three-year-old frame looks more like seventy, the betrayal he’s levied to his fellow brothers taking its toll on more than just his spirit. He can’t bear to look at himself any longer, and hoping that what he sees staring back at him isn’t the same image that God sees, he heads out of the room and to the front desk.
“Can I help you?” the man at the desk asks without looking up from the magazine he’s reading.
“Is there a shopping mall around here?” The need to be surrounded by as many people as possible is furious.
“Yeah, about ten miles south. Just follow the signs.” The hotel manager looks up and seems taken aback b
y the bald man standing before him, his eyes narrowing on the tattoo etched into his neck—a cross wrapped by a rose.
“Thanks,” Joab says. He hopes the manager is more interested in the dirty magazine than the ancient symbol that can be Googled easily enough on the computer behind him.
He pulls into the shopping mall fifteen minutes later. About to exit the car, and against every instinct, he takes the ring from his pocket, opens the glove compartment, and slides it beneath a stack of instruction manuals, maps, and paperwork. Even though the car can’t possibly be traced back to him, it’s hardly an ideal hiding spot. But he mustn’t have the ring on his person if their agents find him again.
He walks across the parking lot, pulling his big coat tight against himself, and tries to ignore the stalking shadows that he knows are entering the mall with him.
The buzz of activity hustling about beneath the bright Christmas lights and hanging wreaths provides a certain level of community that he has never before experienced. Not like this, anyway. But there is no time for such bitter reflection now. He needs a disposable phone so he can contact the Jesuit priest who had shared with him in secret letters what the ring actually was and what the Society hoped to use it for. Perhaps now the Jesuit might have a better idea of what could be done with it.
Quickening his pace toward the proper kiosk, he is almost there when he sees them. Two agents. Not the same ones from the cabin, but undoubtedly armed with the same lethal machinery. He thinks about running and decides against it. He’s too tired to keep running from what he knows will inevitably come anyway. Turning to face them, he prays silently, again offering his soul to the very God the song ringing throughout the mall honors, whether the shoppers realize it or not.
The Demon Signet Page 1
