“Yes,” Stephen says, “that would certainly complicate things, wouldn’t it?”
Legends peddled in other circles believe the ring fashioned from the dark judgment stone in Aaron’s breastplate actually brings about God’s judgment on the wearer. Much the way Pharaoh’s heart was hardened by God, so the Old Testament instrument is believed to turn any unholy person over to the captivity of their own carnal heart and into the hands of hell. This demon aspect of the ring, though perhaps the reason behind their illuminated origins, is not this contemporary Order’s concern—and neither is it Jacob’s. The desire for the ring now—both rings—is according to another legend, one less supernatural and more relevant to their ultimate goal. But if another person were to put the ring on, a person so debased and with no allegiance to anything but his or her own blind destruction, then the Order would have a big problem on its hands. It would have another Jonathan to deal with. Much better would it be if the people in possession of the ring happen to be of strong moral character, for at last there would be a struggle in their decision to use the dark powers, stalling them and leaving them vulnerable to the Order’s repossession of the stone.
“Do whatever you have to do. Assemble a hit team to take out Jonathan. Use the local governments to go after the Saab. Put out whatever you have to put out to get it done. FBI, SWAT, Homeland, I don’t care if you have to use the National Guard. Use whoever you have to use. I want those people off the road and in a cell as soon as possible.”
“If Jonathan doesn’t get to them first.”
“If Jonathan doesn’t get to them first. And if he does…he’ll have to fight his way through an army to get away this time.”
Stephen scratches an itch at the corner of his mouth. “The weather may be of assistance to us. The roads are freezing over, and with the storm coming into that area and all the holiday travelers on the road…they’re worried about severe traffic jams on the interstates. They’re even comparing it to the Valentine’s Day Blizzard of 2007, saying it’ll make Winter Storm Nemo look like a picnic.”
“They needed the National Guard to clear that up, yes?”
“Both storms, yes.”
A smile spreads from beneath the beard, and before Stephen can escape the cold room with a bow, Jacob says, “You see, Stephen, the Master is still on our side. That is why Jonathan hasn’t been able to attain the ring. The Master doesn’t want him to have it. He wants us to have it. He won’t allow all he has been orchestrating over the last two thousand years to be threatened by one renegade agent.”
“Which is what I suggested in the beginning,” Stephen utters cautiously, not repeating his concern that the millennia-long conspiracy might end up fulfilling the prophecy of their own destruction.
But this time Jacob just nods. “And perhaps you were right. Or maybe we were both right, for sending Jonathan after the ring is what has made us aware of its location, is it not?”
He takes a humble bow, acknowledging the possibility that the Master’s plan had always included Jonathan, if not for the reason they had at first suspected. “There is, of course, another reason he may not be able to obtain the ring…”
Jacob just stares at him. “You better leave before your doubt gets you in trouble, Stephen.”
“I am sorry, Jacob.” He steps out of the room and disappears, leaving the tall man to ponder his last words. There is another reason… But that possibility opens up too many mysteries, and his mind can’t grapple with them all. He turns and watches the light fade behind a white forest.
Twenty-six
Can Ian really know? Heather thought, again subconsciously wrapping her arms across her flat stomach. If he did, then there could only be one explanation. Ashley told Marcus and Marcus told Ian. But when? She looked up and over at her fiancé. His face was beginning to bruise. She thought she could sense words of apology tiptoeing across his pressed lips, but he couldn’t possibly hope to explain what he’d done. She could see his frustration, his fear, and as scared as she was, she felt sorry for him. She knew he would never be able to forgive himself for those few seconds, whether he’d been under some external influence or not.
She leaned forward and—surprised both by how hard it was for her to do and that she was doing it—placed her left hand on his thigh. It was an awkward position for her, leaning so far forward with her left arm crossing her body, but she wanted him to glimpse the engagement ring he’d slipped on her finger that wonderful night beneath the star-studded sky that had seemed, at the time, to have only pronouncements of blessing for their future. The ring glistened.
Another tear slipped from his eye. He ignored the missing flesh on his forearm and the blood dripping onto his jeans, the sleeve of his sweatshirt pushed up to the elbow.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again. He put his left hand over hers and squeezed. Then he looked over to Marcus. “I’m so sorry, Marc. I don’t know…”
“It was the ring,” Ashley stated from behind him. “It all has to do with the ring. It’s cursed.” She wiped her mouth on her blood-streaked sleeve again.
It sounded absurd to Heather, things being “cursed.” Ghosts, demons, haunted houses…cars. But the evidence on hand couldn’t conjure an objection. Instead, she asked, “Do you think it’s over now?”
They all exchanged a single, furtive glance, hoping but not proclaiming.
Their unwillingness to voice any confidence in being rid of this nightmare disturbed Heather. She thought back to her phone, to the cat she’d kicked, the images… Why would this “force”—that’s what she subconsciously identified it as—be bringing up things in her past? In Ashley’s past? If she considered her own messages in a vacuum and attributed it to some Hollywood screenwriter, she might think that the ring had the ability to bring to light a person’s hidden sins and to usher judgment on them. The neighbor’s cat, kicked and tossed into the street, its intestines strewn all over the place, its furry body popped beneath the weight of a passing truck… The secret pregnancy, the option of abortion, an act many classified as infanticide…
That last thought suddenly merged her onto a different highway and toward a whole new destination. She began reciting the reason why she had kept the pregnancy from Ian, testing its nobility. She told herself that it was to free Ian from the burden of the choice, to spare him the regret that Ashley suggested might someday come knocking. The risk if she chose not to have their child was, of course, him finding out one day and disapproving of her decision, of not having been given a say in whether or not his son or daughter would ever be rocked in his arms. She didn’t know what all his desires were in regards to children, but she knew he wanted them. Hell, she wanted them, and she didn’t even know if she really would put her own desires above the life growing within her—which was why Ashley was right. If she planned on spending the rest of her life with Ian and if she wanted their relationship to be one built on trust and love, how could she possibly go into it with a secret this big hanging over them? It would gnaw at her for the rest of her life. The Secret. And what might she think after giving birth to another baby? Would she have forgotten about the first one she didn’t want, or would she be doomed to wonder, in the face of their growing child, what personality, looks, and gifts the first might’ve had? No, Ashley was right, damn right. She needed to tell Ian. If he did want the baby after she decided she didn’t, there would be a referendum: life with Ian, whatever it may be, or life without him. And when it came down to that, it wasn’t even a question. She loved Ian with all of her heart and would gladly start their family a little earlier than she’d intended rather than trade him and their family away altogether. She wished she had thought through her initial reluctance a little sooner, had looked it in the face right away. Did she really think she could keep such a thing from him? It was stupid, and now he would want to know why she kept it from him. If he knew she was contemplating abortion without his consent, could he forgive her? Maybe she could navigate around that little fact, convince him that she
would have sought his feelings once she was sure of her own.
Ashley interrupted her thoughts. “You okay, sis?”
Heather snapped out of her pondering. “Huh?” The word barely made it out of her.
“Are you okay?”
Her sister was raped, impregnated by a piece of filth that should be spending the rest of his life being gang-raped by inmates named Biff, and yet she had wanted to keep the child…
“I’m fine.” She let go of Ian’s hand and leaned back in the seat, clearing her mind and focusing on her sister. “How are you?”
Ashley’s face was still tear-stained and pale, and she was chewing her fingernails. The sight of Joyce swinging like that would forever be with her, Heather was sure. She touched her little sister’s face, rubbing a lingering tear away with her thumb.
Ashley just shook her head. She’d witnessed something straight out of a nightmare in Joyce’s house, ran into her disemboweled friend swinging from a tree, saw a man run down on the highway, communicated with a demon through the car’s speakers, and, in zombie fashion, took a bite out of her sister’s fiancé in an attempt to save her life. Yeah, she was just swell.
Pushing the tides of her encroaching phobia aside, Heather embraced her sister, and they cried on each other’s shoulder, leaving Marcus and Ian sitting in strange silence upfront, Christmas music mocking their bizarre circumstances with empty promises of goodwill toward men.
Twenty minutes later, flashing lights appeared behind them.
****
Ashley opened her eyes when Marcus pulled over onto the shoulder. She didn’t even remember sliding into sleep, but a quick look at the dashboard clock told that her escape had been only a few minutes long.
“What’s going on?” She wiped her mouth again, trying for the hundredth time to get the taste of Ian’s flesh and blood out of it. It wouldn’t go away. She pulled another curly hair from her teeth, incapable of comprehending what she’d done. Though still unable to think of another way she could’ve gotten him to release her sister, the savageness of her actions frightened her. She’d felt something in that desperate moment, something she hoped she’d never feel again. Some twisted possession had overtaken her once more.
“Cop,” Marcus said.
She sat up and joined Heather in looking out the rear window. “Were you speeding?”
“I don’t think so.”
The sight of the black police officer strolling cautiously toward them stirred a mixed reaction from Ashley. There was relief from seeing the law and order that had sworn to serve and protect her, but there was also worry that the same law might have found Charles in the woods, the back of his head blown apart like a blossoming flower, his Rover abandoned at Joyce’s house. A knot began twisting in her stomach.
The officer approached the driver’s door, and Marcus rolled down the window.
“Hi,” the officer said. He was a big guy, bigger than Marcus, but there was warmth in his hazel eyes.
“Hi, officer,” Marcus answered.
The cop took a quick survey of the car’s interior. Ian’s wound was hidden beneath the sleeve of his coat, and he was being careful to keep the bloody side of his face turned away from him. “Pretty big accident back there. Did you see it?” the officer asked.
Marcus hesitated, but he wasn’t one to lie. “Yeah. Is everyone okay?”
“Did you happen to witness it?”
Ian quickly wiped his eye with his sleeve and then leaned over and looked up out the window. “No, officer. The trucks were off the road by the time we passed by.”
“You didn’t think to stop?”
“We called it in,” Ian lied.
Ashley could tell that Marcus was growing uncomfortable.
The state trooper pursed his lips in thought. “Can I see your license and registration?”
“Is something wrong?”
The cop eyed Marcus suspiciously. “Your taillight’s out.”
“Really?” Marcus asked.
“Looks like you have some fresh dents and scrapes back there, too. What happened?”
Marcus swallowed. “Got rear-ended.”
“By what?”
“A black Camaro.” He handed over his license and the registration they found in the glove compartment.
The officer took it from him and considered his explanation. He seemed somewhat satisfied. “How long ago?”
“Couple hours,” Ian lied again.
“You report it?”
“The guy took off; we kept going. We’re just trying to get home for Christmas.”
“Where’s home?”
“Maryland.”
“You got quite a trip in front of you.”
“I know.”
“Storm’s coming.” The cop looked up at the sky. “They’re saying it could be a bad one. I’d think about holing up somewhere. You don’t wanna be stranded out here on the road all night.”
Ashley leaned forward. “It’s that bad?”
He turned and acknowledged her in the backseat. “With all this Christmas traffic?” He smiled. “Well, not here, but down south a ways you’ll find plenty of heavy traffic. All it takes is one big accident in severe conditions and they’ll need the National Guard to get ’em all out. In ’07, people were stranded overnight. Guard had to helicopter people out before they froze to death. Nemo, too.”
A burst of static followed by a crackled voice traveled over his radio. He bent his head into it and pressed the transmit button. He turned his head away from them when he talked, and Ashley couldn’t catch what he said. When he turned back to them, he rested a hand on the car door and looked them over with a skeptic’s eye. But he had to go, no matter what he suspected here.
“You folks drive safe, you hear? And think about getting off the road soon. When you get home, get your license plate dealt with. It must’ve fallen off when you were rear-ended.” He handed back the driver’s license and registration without even looking at it and jogged back to his car. Before Marcus even had the Saab in drive, the police car’s siren was sounding, lights flashing, and it was screeching back onto the road, crossing over the snowy median and taking off north.
Ashley watched the red and blue lights diminish as Marcus pulled the Saab back onto the interstate. Any relief she’d had seemed to be heading north too, riding captive in the back seat of the police car. A sense that something was still very wrong, that this nightmare was not yet over, was refortifying somewhere in her conscious mind. Built upon it was the conviction that they would never be safe from that dark man, whether they had the ring or not. Joyce hadn’t had the ring and neither did George when the freak slaughtered them. But there was something else there too, something hiding behind the umbrella of that fear, its face leaving an ever-so-slight impression on the outer fringes of her comprehension. Though she couldn’t put her finger on it, it left her with the feeling of something grand, the world on the verge of some epic act that would forever alter it. And with that feeling realized, a cloud of apocalyptic doom settled over her. It forced her eyes to the horizon almost as if indicating that forces not of this world would be the main culprits of whatever horror was set to invade.
“He didn’t even look at your driver’s license,” Heather muttered.
“The plate’s missing,” Ian wondered aloud. “I think that just bought us some more time.”
There was an aftertaste of the miraculous in Ashley’s thinking. Joyce’s plate falling off? Perhaps there was a greater force at work, mysterious ways and all that. Still, taking a ride in the back of a cruiser might have been the safer bet with a demon out for their blood. And so she prayed—yes, she actually let a soft prayer slip through her untrained lips—that this miracle of averting a jail cell might be the work of angels. Though why God would dispense His holy agents to help them on Christmas Eve, she couldn’t be certain. Perhaps it could be explained by whatever this imposing incident was that she felt looming. Something…galactic.
She still had her eyes on t
he northern skies, her thoughts marching along in a forest of shadows, when the gray clouds began to split. They spread apart like curtains announcing the next act on an otherworldly stage, and she narrowed her eyes, doubting what they were beholding. From behind the spreading clouds came a black claw clothed in flame. Its talons reached forth out of nowhere and grasped the ethereal wisps as if they weren’t clouds at all but rather the sides of a mountain tomb the hellish creature was intent on freeing itself from. Another clawed, bony hand, dark and shiny like coal, took hold of the opposite sky, and the creature pulled itself from the womb of some other dimension, poking its head into this world and breathing its air for the first time.
Ashley started to shake, her face numb. Fright gripped her so tightly that she thought it might crush her bones to powder.
The creature’s head was oblong in shape, a glistening, black watermelon. Its eyes were burning coals, and horns protruded from its skull at a downward angle. It had no nose, and its mouth was oriented where a chin might be expected. It was opening and closing, speaking, its forked tongue flickering in and out like a blazing whip.
Charlie Brown’s friend, Lionel, had his piano going, pounding out his Christmas song in the Saab, but Ashley didn’t hear it. She didn’t hear anything. She couldn’t breathe. She could only stare at this mysterious manipulation of time and space, occult dimensions converging in unnatural symphony, its crescendo a black hole giving birth to something from hell itself. The dragon slipped out of whatever plane it had come from, gliding through the clouds and slithering through the sky like a serpent lubricated by psychic fluids borrowed from its former home. Then it spread its bat-like wings and flew. Flew down. Down. Down. She felt vulnerable, violated…the images of that night plaguing her, mocking her, as if the creature had not only been present then, but was now taking responsibility for the crime…and that there was more where it had come from. That there was an eternity of it waiting just beyond the breached curtain, through the portal to endlessness.
The Demon Signet Page 20
