Solomon's Ring

by Mary Jennifer Payne

  A low, loud whistle from behind me sings out into the night air. Lily’s given the signal.

  Amara and Fiona spring over the fence. The black bandana falls from Fiona’s hair, exposing her ­white-blond curls. Both of them hold their poles ­defensively in front of them the way we’ve been taught at Beaconsfield.

  The demons drop the fox, which continues to twitch in the long grass, and that’s when I realize it’s still alive. And with this realization, a tidal wave of anger is ­released in me as Lily and I charge the demons that are advancing on Fiona and Amara from behind.

  With a shout, I bring my pole up and across one of the demon’s necks as it swivels in surprise away from Fiona and toward me. There’s the satisfying squelch of the pole moving into the demon’s flesh and then the ­resistance of bone against bamboo. The familiar smell of rust wafts over me.

  I hear Lily shout in panic as the other demon turns and lunges at her. Amara leaps after it, swinging her pole forcefully. It grazes the back of demon’s neck, leaving a superficial scratch that’s not enough to even distract it.

  Within seconds the demon is on Lily, knocking her to the ground. Amara throws herself at it, screaming, but the demon is strong and doesn’t budge. Its hands are firmly around Lily’s neck, causing her eyes to bulge like a goldfish that’s been tossed from its bowl. A purple tinge is slowly blossoming across her lips.

  The demon I attacked is not dead yet, because my pole didn’t fully sever its spinal cord. Instead it shuffles toward me, head hanging awkwardly at an angle that shouldn’t be physically possible, its tongue lolling out the side of its mouth.

  As soon as it’s within arm’s reach, I swing at it, using my pole like a baseball bat. My pole is on target and the demon’s head drops to the ground, followed by its body. A few seconds later, tendrils of grey smoke slowly unfurl from the corpse.

  I turn toward Lily and Amara just in time to see Fiona swing her pole and smash the other demon’s skull in. Bits of bone, brain, and blood fly everywhere. She ­retracts her pole less than a second later and swings again, this time slicing clean through its neck.

  Amara and the demon roll off Lily like a pair of Siamese twins. Fiona turns toward the fox, which is still softly whimpering and twitching where the demons dropped it. She brings her pole down, silencing it.

  “Rest in peace, little one,” she says, walking toward us. Chunks of grey, spongy brain matter and bits of bone are stuck in her curls and on the bandana, and her face is splattered with blood.

  “Looking good, Goldilocks,” Amara says, her voice full of admiration. She puts her arm around Lily’s back, helping her to sit up. “Great job. Though you’re going to need a shower for sure.”

  Lily coughs and shakes her head. “It bit me,” she says, pulling the sleeve of her T-shirt up to her shoulder. Rivulets of blood that look almost black in the dusky light of our video phones slide along her skin.

  Fiona unties her bandana, gives it a shake, and hands it to Amara. “Tie this around the wound,” she says. She looks toward the back fence and into the darkened yards around us. “Well, now we know there are still demons out here. And because of that, I think we should get outta here and back into the street as soon as possible.”

  “We need to get your arm cleaned,” I say to Lily, who is slowly getting to her feet with Amara’s support.

  “And where exactly can we do that?” Amara says. “Any hospital we go to will report us for being out after curfew, and I don’t think arriving with our poles is a good idea anyway, especially with blood and guts all over ourselves.”

  “I’m going to message Mr. Khan,” I say. “We’re going to get it in the neck for being out here, but none of us knows what a demon bite might do, and any bite needs to be cleaned. After all, the demon was using a human’s mouth to do the deed, and our mouths are notorious bacterial breeding grounds.”

  “Okay, Dr. Guzman,” Amara says sarcastically. “Just tell him not to let Mrs. Jackson in on this. She’ll chew me up and spit me out.”

  “All of the Protectors, not to mention Ms. Samson, are going to kill us,” Lily says hoarsely. “But at least we can say we know that there are demons still here and how they’re feeding and surviving. Right?”

  I nod. There’s no way more than a handful of demons could survive on the blood of stray animals. Which means maybe Ms. Samson was wrong when she told Jasmine that there was a legion of demons here. Maybe only a few were actually able to get through the rift that opened between here and the Place-in-Between.

  “I really think we should head back toward your place,” Fiona says to me as I bring up Mr. Khan’s ­contact details on my video watch. “In case there are more ­demonic bastards lurking out here.”

  “Actually, all of you need to stay just where you are,” an unfamiliar voice says from behind us.

  JASMINE

  “We need to go to the hotel where the night crew is housed. They’re never out during the day. Smith claims it’s because they’re working all night and need to go to rehab and other training programs during the day, but if we can catch them before they’re sent out to their different projects, maybe we’ll get a better idea of why they act so robotic. I bet Smith and Jawad are drugging their food or something equally sinister,” I say as we make our way along Front Street toward Union Station.

  “You’re sure this is the right hotel? It seems pretty central, considering Smith wants to keep these people’s identities secret,” Jennifer says.

  “Who’s in charge of these people, anyway? Is it Mayor Smith?” Cassandra asks, tossing her dark hair behind one shoulder. She looks around us, her eyes widening with concern. “I think we should be moving a little more into the shadows,” she says as two orange school buses pass us. “It’s busier here than I feel comfortable with.”

  I look around. The buses — no longer used for school excursions, as the cost of the electricity to run them is too great — are used to ferry the night crew around. That means they’re going to be leaving soon.

  “We need to hurry,” I say, walking faster. Cassandra’s right. We really should be taking the back streets, but adding time getting to the hotel would mean possibly missing the night crew. “Just keep close to the buildings. As far as I know, Mr. Jawad’s in charge of the night crew. Smith only comes around if there’s a chance to impress the media.”

  We’re half a block from the hotel. The buses are out front. Mr. Jawad is standing on the sidewalk, his bulbous stomach silhouetted by the lights at the entrance of the hotel. Mitchell, the ginger-haired assistant, is buzzing around Jawad like a hungry mosquito. I hadn’t thought about the actual logistics of how we’d get close enough to actually see what’s going on. Now that we’re here, I realize just how difficult getting closer is going to be. We slow and duck into a doorway, flattening against the stone.

  “What now?” Cassandra asks, wiping at the sweat on her forehead. “We can’t get closer without them noticing us.”

  Six eyes turn to stare at me. I pause. Again, it’s ­unspoken, but I’m being looked to for leadership.

  “I know. That’s why I’m going to go over there,” I say. “Alone. Everyone else should stay put. I’ll make up some excuse for being here. And I’m going to make Mr. Jawad touch me.”

  “Ewwwww,” Jennifer says, wrinkling her nose as though she’s just gotten a whiff of a pile of soiled diapers. “Why would you want that old fat man to touch you?”

  My face burns. “Not like that. I didn’t mean it like that. Pervert.”

  Cassandra laughs. “How was it meant then? You did just sound uber creepy a second ago.”

  I narrow my eyes at her, remembering how she’d seemed to compete with me for Raphael’s attention when I first met her. “He wouldn’t shake my hand when we met. In fact, he’s made sure that we’ve never had any physical contact, and I find that strange. He blamed it on fear of superbugs, but I’ve seen him shake othe
r people’s hands. Just not mine.”

  Vivienne shrugs. “C’mon, Jasmine. You’re probably reading into it. Maybe he’s a selective hypochondriac. I really don’t think there’s some sort of conspiracy theory to be had.” Her condescending tone only adds to my irritation. “Did you try to find out what he was thinking when he refused to shake your hand?”

  I nod. “That’s precisely it. I couldn’t read his mind. It was impossible. And I don’t mean just fuzzy, like it is sometimes with people; it was a complete blank. Like running up against a brick wall.”

  “You said Smith knows a lot about us, right? Which means she’s blocking her thoughts from you a lot of the time, or at least she’s trying to, so maybe it’s the same thing with him. After all, if she knows a lot about Seers, you can guarantee he does,” Cassandra says as she peers around the corner of the stone archway. “They’ve got the workers lining up in groups on the sidewalk, so you’d better hurry if you want the chance to see them up close and personal.”

  “Watch my back just in case anything goes wrong,” I say, slipping out of the doorway and onto the sidewalk. My heart is pounding against my ribcage with the ferocity of a tiger. Mr. Jawad’s back is to me as I approach. He’s speaking to one of the groups of workers. Though they’re all facing him, their orange jumpsuits clean and unwrinkled, I can’t get any sense of what they’re thinking or feeling, mainly because they’re all sporting their sunglasses. Also, when I try to tap into any of their thoughts, a tsunami of voices, a thousand of them all jumbled together and screaming like trapped animals, comes at me. Maybe it has to do with their addictions, but not all the night crew workers are addicts, according to Smith. I can’t distinguish any of the voices, and they feel distant, as though they’re coming at me from somewhere deep underwater. The only other time I’ve experienced anything like it was when I was able to faintly pick up on Jamie Linnekar’s memories of his mother. His thoughts were so distant, they were almost imperceptible.

  “Mr. Jawad,” I say when I’m close enough to touch him.

  He spins around, his sausage-like lips forming a capital O of surprise. Tonight’s eye patch is a matte black. Slightly boring but tasteful.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks. There’s no denying the tone. I’m definitely not welcome. “It’s after your curfew, Jasmine.”

  For a moment my mouth feels like it’s been stuffed full of peanut butter, and I’m unable to speak. The way Mr. Jawad is looking at me is different than before. The fatherly friendliness he’s always shown me in front of Smith has evaporated, to be replaced by a much darker, threatening tone.

  “I thought Mayor Smith might be here …” I say, noticing him glaring at my pole. “And … I was heading home after my martial arts class and realized I hadn’t seen my identity banking card since we filmed last night, so I came down here, hoping you or Smith or Mitchell —”

  “Hoping what? Why would you come down here, at this time of the night, when you know Mayor Smith is staying in this evening?” he asks, leaning toward me. Foamy spittle flies from his lips as he speaks, and I swallow back the impulse to vomit. “You knew she had a dinner party this evening. I was there when she told you.” As he’s speaking, I focus hard, trying to crack my way into his thoughts, but once again there’s nothing. Common sense tells me he’s thinking he’d like to squash me like a bug, though….

  “I — I forgot,” I stammer, glancing over his shoulder at the rows of orange-suited zombies that are standing, every single one of them with his head cocked slightly to the right, as if listening to something or someone only they can hear. The light from the hotel windows glints off their sunglasses. It’s as though they’re zombie soldiers waiting for their next command. And that’s when it hits me. My eyes widen as I realize just why the sunglasses are necessary, and why no one is allowed to see the workers. To really see them.

  “Why don’t you just take a seat inside the hotel lobby, and as soon as I see the workers off, we can go and look for your card?” Mr. Jawad says, suddenly smiling. “I’ll contact Mayor Smith and tell her you’re here. She might know where your card is. And I know she’d want to be sure you got home safely. After all, you never know if the CCT are out there waiting, like boogeymen, to grab people, do you?”

  Mitchell is suddenly beside us, laughing at Mr. Jawad’s comment. His laugh is like a donkey’s bray — shrill and irritating.

  In an instant I realize I’ve screwed up. This was too large a risk. Mr. Jawad’s just read my mind, ­rather than the other way around, which means I’m in ­danger. Then I see something that makes me suck in my breath: Smith’s ring, the one she always wears, with the Star of David thing on it. It’s hanging from a thick silver chain around Mitchell’s scrawny neck. The light from the hotel catches it, and it glitters at me like a chip of ice.

  Mr. Jawad’s eyes narrow as soon he sees I’ve noticed the ring, but before he has a chance to react, I reach out and rip the chain from Mitchell’s neck, pushing my other hand against Mr. Jawad’s upper chest as I do so. And although our physical contact only lasts for a ­fraction of a second, it’s enough.

  My knees buckle, and urine, warm and wet, leaks from my bladder as tortured screams fill my head. The shrieks are loud, louder than a jet plane taking off, and filled with immense pain. Images of faces, half-eaten, wild-eyed, and infested with maggots that dance like whirling dervishes come tumbling at me. I wish I could block them out, but can’t. I tumble to the sidewalk, scraping the skin off my knuckles as I fight to keep a hold of both the ring and my pole.

  “Jasmine!” Cassandra shouts. The girls spill out of the doorway and move toward me.

  “No!” I yell, picking myself up and stumbling ­forward. My legs feel like jelly. “Run!”

  The work crew is coming after us. They’re the wolves, and we’re the prey.

  I’m racing as fast as I can behind everyone. Jennifer looks back and nearly trips. I don’t want to turn and attack, because there’s a part of me that questions my theory about the night crew. What if they are human? Smith would have me up on murder or terrorism charges in the blink of an eye if I were to defend myself. On the other hand, why would they chase us if they weren’t demonic?

  Maybe because you just mugged the mayor’s ­assistant and then assaulted her right-hand man?

  My hand throbs as I run. The sensation is ­partially from the nerve endings in my skin reacting to the scrape, but the ring itself, secure within my clenched hand, also feels like it’s beating. I know that seems crazy, but there’s definitely a vibration coming from it … it’s like it has some kind of a life force of its own. I try not to think about it. I need to stay focused on not losing sight of Cassandra, Jennifer, and Vivienne.

  Lungs burning, I increase my speed as I approach Yonge Street. I’m keeping my gaze on Vivienne’s long brown legs as she runs onto the road when something suddenly grabs me around the shoulders and pulls me sharply to the right. I’m spun around like a crazed ­ballerina and have just enough time to see the blur of a few faces and the bright graffiti collage on the alley walls before my head is draped, effectively blinding me. My pole is ripped from my left hand, but I somehow manage to keep the ring enclosed in my right palm. There’s not even time to scream as a hand is clamped over my mouth. More than one person is grabbing me, and I try desperately to fight, flailing my arms and legs at my ­unseen assailants, but it’s no use. I slip the ring into the front pocket of my jeans moments before ­multiple arms wrap around me and I am hoisted vertically, ­somewhere into the sky, away from Smith’s night crew and away from the rest of the Seers.

  JADE

  I jump and nearly shout out. Heart racing, I turn and see Amara throwing her arms around the man who’s ­somehow managed to sneak up on us. I smile at Lily, but it’s a shaky smile because all I can think is one or more of us could be dead right now if this man had been a demon.

  “This is my dad,” Amara says, grinning widely, her
white teeth gleaming like Chiclets. She turns back to her father. “Dad, this is Jade, Lily, and Fiona. How did you find us?” Her admiration for her father shines in her eyes.

  Mr. Jakande shakes his head. “No need to worry about that right now.” His voice is deep and strangely reassuring. “None of you should be out after curfew, and you certainly should not be out here.” He glances down at the decapitated bodies lying near our feet but doesn’t look shocked. In fact, not even a glimmer of surprise ­registers on his face. “As such, I need to get all of you home and safe as soon as possible.”

  “We can’t go with you,” I say. “We’re supposed to meet my sister and Vivienne and the others in the lobby of the apartment building where I live. They’ll be waiting for us.”

  Mr. Jakande nods. “Yes, we knew that was ­happening, and it’s been taken care of. A ride home has been ­arranged for them already. No worries.”

  I raise an eyebrow at Lily. Who is this we he keeps referring to? Considering he’s Amara and Vivienne’s father, I don’t see what choice we have but to trust him.

  Fiona and Lily are dropped off first. Then Mr. Jakande drops Amara off. A worm of worry unfurls in my ­stomach. Why is he dropping off his daughter? I can see the question forming behind Amara’s eyes as well, though her father seems to inspire such reverence, she doesn’t even ask.

  “See you soon, my Bokkie,” Mr. Jakande says as he opens the car door for Amara. “I’ll watch until you get inside. If your mother notices, which I don’t think she will, judging from the amount of wine her book club has consumed this evening, tell her I’ll explain everything when I get home.” He leans over and gives Amara a kiss on the forehead.

  “See you tomorrow,” Amara says, leaning back down to peer into the car and wave at me. She smiles widely.