“Where is it, dammit?” Ian forced his wooden legs into the untouched blanket of snow as Marcus continued searching the perimeter.
“G-g-give…m-m-me…flash…light,” Ashley insisted, reaching for it.
Marcus handed it over.
“What’d you see?” he asked.
She pointed the beam toward the corner of the clearing diagonal to them.
Ian squinted. There was something there. He started walking, zombie-like, through a foot of snow. After covering half of the small lot, he could finally make out what it was.
A black, mud-stained, 2009 Range Rover Sport.
The sight of the vehicle infused energy into his stiffened joints, and he began to walk faster. He could hear the others following after him. Marcus was trying to keep the light steady, and every time his hand flinched, the vehicle disappeared back into nothingness. Each time, Ian expected the car to be gone when Marcus finally got the light back to it. But it stayed put. They weren’t imagining things.
They congregated around the vehicle. There was a coating of snow on the roof, but hardly any on the hood. That seemed odd.
Just as Ian reached for the handle, the Rover’s interior light went on.
Fourteen
The wind comes howling down the road, an invisible force storming through a backdoor pried open from the other side of reality. The gust of alien energy repeatedly snaps at his long coat with a violent crack sound and tries its hardest to carry his hat away. He stands completely unconscious to all of this. To the wind, the snow, the cold. He is only aware of one thing.
The ring.
It’s here. Right in front of him. In the pocket of the girl standing on the side of the road. How he knows this isn’t really a concern to him. Most of what he knows he has learned not to question, only to obey.
They stand there staring at him, a sliver of pathetic hope in their eyes as if he’s here to rescue them from their predicament. Oh, there’s fear and uncertainty there as well, perhaps even terror, but he can detect the stinking smell of hope, that disease, clinging to them like rot. It makes him sick. Angers him. He wants to fly at them, to disembowel them…hang them from the trees by their own insides.
But he doesn’t move. He can’t.
The ring.
Being this close to it again short-circuits his mental aptitude for appropriate reaction—namely the violent death of the four people and his confiscating the ring…his ring.
No other person alive can boast of the relationship he has with the ancient object. No one else can claim such a fusion with its power. If there is another out there with such a link, then surely the Brotherhood would have sent that person after it instead. But there is no other, and there will never be another. It is he who is the Crest of Dragons. Solomon may have been made the sport of demons by the ring, but he is a demon. And he revels in that knowledge.
“Hello?” one of them asks him.
He ignores the little maggot, still slightly confused as to why he isn’t busy tearing throats out. Is the ring’s presence really that debilitating? Like being stunned by a woman’s beauty or some other speechless encounter with something either too wonderful to grasp or too horrid to comprehend? Not that he’s ever had an experience with beauty. At least none that he can recall. There was never any beauty in his life.
“We hit a moose back a ways…”
Oh, but he wants to walk around the front of his chariot like the renegade god he is, wants to reach out and lift the four worms off the ground and squeeze their bodies until their eyeballs pop from their skulls. He wants to debase their carcasses as a sacrifice to hell. He wants to slip the ring back on his finger and become once more “he who will destroy the world.”
But he doesn’t. He can’t. Instead, he stands there staring at them through his sunglasses, the whore blinding him with her flashlight. He has a mind to shine the flashlight somewhere else, to make its light exit the two windows of her rotting soul.
The black man looks down at his phone, shows it to the rest of them.
And they run.
They run. Away from him!
He watches as the forest swallows them, but still he cannot move to pursue them, to descend upon them and claim his prize. He begins to wonder if this is the ring’s affect on him…or something else. Though what else it can be, he doesn’t know.
Suddenly, the bond snaps and he’s free. But he stands still as if in defiance toward whatever force had paralyzed him. He doesn’t need to run after the ring. It will always be in communion with him, calling to him.
He slips back in the driver’s seat and closes the door. Staring out into the wall of shifting snow, he primes the V8 engine, steam pouring from the dual exhaust pipes. When he puts the car in drive, the snow bends around the vessel, parting before him in fear.
Feelings of anger toward those he now serves (but to those who will soon serve him), even as their voices return, pester him with questions of doubt. Why the judgment ring had just now been withheld from him is beyond his realm of understanding. And he doesn’t know why, if they want him to have it, the demons should tease him with it first. Why not just take it, tear it right out of the girl’s pocket and renew their vow right then and there? Certainly they were capable. Weren’t they?
It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. The ring is close, and it will be on his hand tomorrow, the Brotherhood, the world, and God Himself be damned.
“I am the Crest of Dragons…”
The scars on his face seem to glow beneath the brim of his hat. The flames have returned and lick the steering wheel, casting shifting light onto the speedometer—which reads ninety-five miles per hour. He can feel their presence in the car with him, sitting beside him, coaching him on. The Lookers are nowhere to be found. He is alone with his true family, and he knows, with faith reaffirmed, that hell is still rooting for him.
The thought is comforting, and it twists his lips into a smile.
The Brotherhood will soon be coming after him, and he cannot wait for their reunion, for his revenge. He will be ready for them, but first there are four other people that require his more immediate attention.
Fifteen
They all shrieked, backing up when the light turned on. Though the windows were fogged, they could make out movement inside the Rover.
The window dropped a foot to reveal the upper portion of a man’s face.
“What in the hell are you people doing out here?” His gravelly voice was shared by both shock and skepticism.
Heather stepped closer to the open window, taking it upon herself to earn the man’s sympathy.
“We…were…in an accident…” She crossed her arms over her chest, shivering. “We hit…a…m-m-moose. Our car…f-f-flipped over.”
The man turned his softening eyes away from her and swept them over the others. “How did you find this place?”
Heather held up her phone, showed him the map. “We were hoping…th-that…th-there was a b-b-building here…we could…f-find shelter in.”
There was the mechanical sound of multiple doors unlocking, and the man told them to get in. “You walked from the road?” As he watched them climb in, he paid closer attention to their soaked attire and dripping hair. “You poor folks.” A horrid fascination seeped into his voice now, unbelieving yet impressed. “Get in, close the doors.”
When they were all seated in the Rover—Marcus, Heather, and Ashley in the back seat and Ian up front next to the stranger—the man turned the engine and cranked up the heat.
The hot air that came pouring out of the vents felt like heaven.
“You folks just sit here for a while and get nice and warm, okay? Can’t believe you walked through this wearing what you’re wearing.”
“Thank you,” Ian said, leaning back and closing his eyes. He concentrated on letting his face thaw while holding his cherry-red hands up to the vents. The pain in his fingers was almost unbearable. He looked back to Heather. “How’re your feet?”
“Pins and
needles.”
“That’s good. Blood’s circulating.”
“My name’s Charles, by the way.” The man dipped his head in greeting.
“Ian.” He shook hands with the kind stranger, though all he felt was the cold fire searing his skin. He introduced the others.
“Sure glad you were here,” Marcus mumbled, rubbing his arms.
Charles looked to be somewhere in his early fifties. He had broad shoulders and a tree trunk that supported his head, all of which was capped with a winter hat. A scraggly gray beard grew like an unkempt lawn over his leathery face, his lips thin and colorless, and his eyes were morsels of dark chocolate held in the clutches of crow’s feet. There was a sadness about him, the lines in his face not the work of laughter. A bright orange hunter’s jacket was keeping him warm, as were orange gloves and waterproof boots. “Lucky for you, I got stuck out here when the storm hit.” He settled those dark eyes on each one of them, like he was trying to solve some kind of puzzle they were part of.
“Hunting?” Ian inquired.
He nodded. “Wanted to get some venison before the storm snowed me in. Musta missed one of my markers on the way back. Took me an extra hour to find the lot. By then the snow was falling pretty hard and it was nearly dark. It ain’t too smart driving on these roads at night in weather like this. I’d rather take my chances driving through a foot of snow in the daylight.”
Ashley held her hands up between the two seats, her own frozen hands screaming in agony beneath the heat. “You think you’ll be able to drive through all this snow?”
“I got chains on the tires. Shouldn’t be a problem. Like I said, it’s better than driving at night, not able to see a foot in front of your face…and hitting a moose.”
“Is there a building around here?” Heather’s phone shut off, the battery dead. She held the blank screen up for everyone else to see while Charles answered. Two phones down, two to go.
“Yeah, right through the trees there.” He pointed. “There’s a small foot trail that leads to it. Once you’re warm enough, you can head over there if you want. Got bathrooms, running water… You’re welcome to stay in here with me. I’ll be glad to take you into town in the morning. But I can’t leave the car runnin’ all night. I’ll turn it on every hour or so just to keep it warm.”
“We really appreciate this,” Ashley said.
“I’m glad I could help. Don’t wanna think too hard on what would’ve happened to you folks had I not been stuck here myself.”
They all agreed with that.
Marcus was looking out the window, praying a pair of headlights wouldn’t come swinging into the parking lot behind them. The black Camaro and its driver in mirrored sunglasses seemed straight from some sequel to Spielberg’s 1971 movie, Duel. The blank face of piling snow was the affirmative answer to his request. So far. Ashley squeezed his hand and rested her head against his chest. He kissed her head, her black hair cold on his lips, and closed his eyes.
Twenty minutes later, Heather said she had to use the restroom. Their clothes were damp, but the sweat on their skin had dried, and their hands and feet were feeling normal again. Twenty minutes spent recuperating in the Rover’s warmth finally allowed them all the fortitude to answer nature’s call. Time to check out the building.
Charles said, “The path’s covered with snow, but you shouldn’t have any trouble following it. The building’s about fifty yards away.”
“Thanks.” Once his feet were back in the snow, Ian asked him, “You’ll still be here when we get back, won’t you?”
“I ain’t goin’ nowhere till daybreak, my friend. But don’t get lost, ya hear, I don’t much feel like coming after you.”
Ian managed a polite smile and shut the door before meeting the others in front of the Rover’s shining headlights. Their bodies cast strange, disfigured shadows that skittered across the lot ahead of them and up and into the trees.
No one spoke of the Camaro as they trudged through the covered path to the concrete bathrooms. They were too exhausted, both mentally and physically, and with Charles and his warm Rover to the rescue, they were enjoying a sense of safety that would be shattered if their fear was given over to words.
They followed the glare of the flashlight to the bathrooms without any problem.
“Hold on a sec,” Marcus said to the girls. He pushed open the heavy metal door to the women’s side of the structure, and Ian followed him in. Marcus was shining the light around the cement box when Ian hit the light switch on the wall, bringing the fluorescent bulbs flickering to life above them. No flannel-wearing men cradling axes or black bears sitting on the can were there to greet them. Nor was there a tall man clad in a trench coat, sunglasses, and a Clint Eastwood cowboy hat.
Marcus opened the door and let the girls go in. “All clear.”
“And cold,” Heather replied, looking up to the vents. They didn’t seem to be doing anything but letting the outside air in. It was like an icebox, but at least there was no wind.
After Marcus and Ian had checked out their own bathroom, satisfying themselves that there was no Abominable Snowman busy at one of the urinals, they stood at the sink washing their hands, letting the glorious hot water run over their skin. They stared into the mirror before them and, not for the last time, wondered how this could all be happening.
“You wanna try calling their parents again? They’ve gotta be worried sick,” Marcus suggested.
Ian pulled out his phone. “No signal.”
Marcus sighed. “I keep telling myself that this is all a dream. That I’ll open my eyes, and we’ll just be touching down at Dulles.”
Ian didn’t say anything.
Marcus splashed some hot water into his face and then went over to the hand dryer. He pushed the big silver button and erased the cold silence with the sound of blowing heat. He shrugged his coat off and turned his back to the stream of hot air. Squatting and leaning his back against the wall beneath it, the heat swam down his neck and caressed his skin, sending waves of relief riding beneath his clothes. “Man, this feels good,” he said, eyes closed.
Ian smiled and raised his phone.
“What’re you doin’?”
“Taking a picture. If we get out of this, it’s gonna be priceless.”
Marcus didn’t find his friend’s words at all amusing.
As soon as they were alone in the bathroom, Ashley grabbed Heather’s sweater and spun her around so that they were facing each other in front of the large mirror hanging above the two sinks. The sudden forcefulness of it stunned Heather.
“What did you see on your phone?” Ashley asked. She wanted to know what had made her sister stomp the crap out of it.
Heather hesitated. She knew Ashley would ask, but the sudden delivery of it startled her, and she couldn’t find the words she’d tried rehearsing before.
“Tell me,” Ashley pressed.
“It was a picture of…a baby.”
Ashley stood silent, her hands not letting go of her sister’s coat, still waiting.
“An aborted baby.” She looked away as tears began to well in her eyes.
Ashley pulled on her sister’s coat, forcing Heather’s eyes back on her own. “What does that mean, Heather?”
“I’m pregnant,” she whispered. A tear landed on the swell of her cheekbone and stayed there, reflecting the buzzing lights above like a diamond.
A second of stunned silence passed before Ashley let her hands fall away from her. “Does Ian know?”
She shook her head, rubbing away more tears.
“Why not?” Thoughts of what might keep Heather from sharing the news with her fiancé came tumbling through her mind, not all of them as innocent as the next. A surge of anxiety swirled in her stomach.
Heather shrugged, looked away again. “I don’t know if I want it.”
“Why? What happened?”
Heather blinked, confused.
“Were you cheating on Ian?”
“What? No, of course
not.”
“Then why wouldn’t you want it?”
“We’re not even married yet, and there’s still so much we want to do together, you know?” She wiped her eyes, sniffing snot back up her nose.
Sadness settled across Ashley’s face.
“You think I’m wrong?” Heather pointed to the door. “What will he say? What will he do if he finds out we have to start our lives together with a baby to take care of? We won’t even get a chance to be married, we’ll be parents from the start! No honeymoon, no romance, no us. You think that’s what he wants? He didn’t sign up for that.” She lowered her voice. “And neither did I.”
With a calm evenness that matched the look in her eyes, Ashley said, “Maybe it’s a choice you shouldn’t be making on your own.”
“But I know how Ian feels about abortion. He’ll want to keep the baby just out of principle, some moral obligation. But if I make the choice myself, without him ever knowing…”
“What if he finds out?”
She fell silent.
“So he finds out years down the road, and what…you think he’s gonna say, ‘Oh thank you so much for not telling me, honey. I wouldn’t have been able to live with that decision so thanks for taking me out of the equation. Thanks for letting us enjoy the married life.’ Is that how you think it’ll go down?” She wasn’t yelling, wasn’t emotional at all, her voice an even, flat tone.
“I didn’t think you’d feel this way,” Heather said, dropping her eyes to her feet. “You don’t understand.”
The flatness of Ashley’s demeanor broke as if an asteroid just crashed into its center, hurling tidal waves of feeling upward and into her own twin blue eyes. “Excuse me?”
“You don’t understand. What if you and Marcus were about to get married…all your hopes and dreams, your expectations… Wouldn’t you even consider—”
“No.”
The hammer stroke through which Ashley delivered her answer stunned Heather into silence.
“You and Ian created a child that is growing inside of you. That child is your daughter or son. My niece or nephew. You want to kill him just because you want a few more years to sleep in, to keep getting drunk and to see the world? That sounds like a whole lot of selfish to me.”
The Demon Signet Page 11
