by Mel Odom
Satisfied, he went up the stairs to his own room.
In the large suite, Warren undressed and took a quick shower. Attending to his personal hygiene always made him feel more in command of himself.
Instead of remaining unclothed, he dressed in black khakis and another rugby shirt. He also tossed a thigh-length leather jacket on the bed so he could find it quickly if he had to.
He added two 9mm pistols and a sheathed knife. The pistols wouldn’t do any good against the demons, but not everything out there that hunted and killed was demonic.
Fatigue ate at him and he wanted to lie down but his mind just wouldn’t rest. Thoughts kept banging away inside his skull. The old fear that had always been with him stirred anxiously.
He lifted the heavy drapes and peered outside. Nothing moved out on the streets. A quick check of the Blood Angel eye watching over Naomi showed him that the door was still shut. If it had opened the eye would have alerted him.
“Warren.”
Startled, Warren gazed around the room. No one else was in the suite besides him.
“Warren.”
This time, Warren tracked the voice to the other side of the room. As he walked in that direction, he picked up one of the 9mm pistols from the bed, fisted it, and flicked the safety off with his thumb.
“Who called for me?” Warren asked quietly.
“Do you wish to know?”
When he reached the wall, Warren opened the hidden safe area he’d found only a few days after his arrival. The pressure release that popped the cover of the safe had to be pressed in the correct order in order to reveal the hidden area. Otherwise it looked just like the wall.
The book lay inside.
As Warren watched, the eyes opened on the book cover and looked down at him.
“Do you wish to know?” the book asked again.
“Who are you?” Warren asked.
The book regarded him, almost looking as though it were looking down its nose at him due to the angle.
“I can be your friend. If you allow me.”
“Friendships cost too much.” More than that, Warren told himself, demons lie.
“You’ve never had a friend like me before.”
Warren remained unconvinced.
“I know about Fulaghar,” the book said.
Instead of immediately asking about the demon, Warren chose to pursue the line of questioning in his head. It was more important to find out who was helping him for one, and who all the other players were.
“How did you find out about that?”
“Because I am one of the Keepers.” There was a note of pride in his voice.
“One of the keepers of what?” Warren asked.
“One of the Keepers of the Secret Histories.”
Warren waited, certain there was a trick involved. “What are the Secret Histories?”
“Things that the demons do not want known.” The book continued to stare at Warren. “How can you not be a friend with one such as I? I can help you attain everything you desire. I can give you a world.”
“Merihim called you a Book of Qhazimog.”
“The demons call us that because Qhazimog was the one who first wrote the Secret Histories.”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“Before the demons came, there was a lot you hadn’t heard of. There’s still a lot you have heard of. Besides that, Qhazimog wasn’t from this world. He was from another. Those who studied the arcane arts millennia ago brought me and other Books into this world. They were given by other worlds that were consumed by the demons and by the Burn.”
Suddenly Warren was even more afraid that he had been. “This is a trick,” he rasped.
“If you believe it is so, then it must be.” The book closed its eyes.
“Wait.” Desperation filled Warren. For the last four years his life had gotten harder to live and the risks greater.
“What?” The book opened its eyes again.
“If you are what you say you are, then why would Merihim allow you to fall into my possession?”
“Your demon lord doesn’t know everything. None of the demons know everything.”
“How did he know to send me after you?”
“He knew only that I was a book important to the Cabalists.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Then how am I here, talking to you? Demons don’t care for books. They never have. For them, books have always presented power to destroy them. I am one of those books. There are others. That’s why demons have sometimes disguised monsters as books to destroy scholars who can read the lost languages.”
“What lost languages?” Warren asked.
“Like the language we’re using now.”
“But you’re speaking like me.”
“No,” the book said. “You’re speaking like me. This is my language, and I’m sharing it with you. I would never do that with a demon.”
Warren thought about that, but the distrust and fear wouldn’t leave him. Still, his entire life had been lived within those shadows. The trick was to embrace the lives and sort out the truths he needed, the truths that would keep him alive.
Gingerly, he reached into the safe and took the book out. “You can tell me about Fulaghar?”
“What do you wish to know?”
“I need to kill him.”
The book laughed, and the effort caused it to shake and vibrate in Warren’s grasp. The noise was dry and hollow. “Your demon lord does not care much for you, does he?”
“Can you tell me about Fulaghar?”
The book’s expression turned serious. “Yes, I can.”
Warren sat at the desk and opened the book. For the first time he saw that the face was not bound to the cover, but instead was free to roam throughout the book. The eyes now opened on every page to look at him and to talk to him.
“Here is Fulaghar,” the book said. “Wrapped in his terrible glory, the Shadow Twister—as he is known by many—has always been vicious in battle. He is even feared within the demon ranks.”
The page showed a towering figure of truly demonic proportions. He stood head and shoulders above the humans who fought in vain against him. They stood on a bare hillock beneath a blazing red sun. Fulaghar wielded a mighty double-bitted battle-ax. The blades ran crimson with blood, and ropes of it stained the white sand beneath the demon’s feet.
Fulaghar had wings and a crown of horns that stood straight as spears a foot above his head. His visage was grim, not truly human as it had been when it had borrowed the First Seer’s face back in the Cabalist lair. Mottled green and yellow scales covered him from head to cloven hoof. The scales were deeper green toward the center of his body and grew gradually more yellow as they flared out to his limbs. Scars stood out on his body and created a map of past battles. A belt of human skulls ringed his waist.
As Warren watched, the battle came to life. Fulaghar couldn’t be stopped and was totally merciless in his attack. The screams of dying and wounded men filled Warren’s ears, punctuated by the ring and rasp of steel on steel.
The demon looked impossible to kill.
“Fulaghar can be destroyed,” the book said. As it spoke, the moving figures on the page came to a stop.
“How?”
“All you have to know is his name.”
“That can’t kill him.” Warren didn’t believe that for a moment. The demons were too ferocious and too hard to kill. He had seen lesser demons destroy the armored knights that he sometimes saw in the city trying to save survivors.
“Knowing his name makes him vulnerable. The demons have other weaknesses, but this is one that I can give you.”
“You know Fulaghar’s true name?” Warren didn’t dare hope, but some part of that emotion took root within him anyway.
“I don’t,” the book said. “But there is another book that will have Fulaghar’s true name listed.”
“Will it also have Merihim’s true name?” The question was out of Warren�
�s mouth before he knew the question had even taken shape in his mind. Sickness twisted within him as he waited to be struck down by Merihim.
The book gazed at him from the page with Fulaghar on it. “When you talk to me, your demon lord cannot hear your thoughts.”
But what about when I’m not talking to you? Will Merihim know what we’ve been talking about? Warren wanted to ask that question but wondered how best to pose it.
“I can shield those thoughts from Merihim,” the book said. “Just as easily as I can read your thoughts now. As I said, I can be the best friend you’ve ever had.”
“What price am I going to have to pay for that friendship?” Warren asked. “The one thing I’ve learned in this world is that nothing comes for free.”
The book stared at him with serious, ancient eyes. “When the time comes, Warren Schimmer, you will be my friend. You’ll help me escape this bondage I have been in for thousands of years.” He gave him a small, sad smile. “The Books of the Secret Histories were not made without tremendous sacrifice. I would be free before I die a true death.”
“But how—”
“No. We’ll not talk of this matter now. That’s too far off and we have much to do before such time arrives.” The book gazed at him. “I’m trusting you as much as you’re trusting me.”
Warren still didn’t believe that was true, but for the moment he didn’t contest the veracity of that statement. The time would come, he knew, when he would learn the truth that was being hidden between them.
All that mattered, given his present circumstances and the impossible task before him, was that he needed a friend who could tell him the things the book promised to reveal.
“All right.” Warren studied the obscene figure of Fulaghar on the page. “Tell me about this book that lists the names of the demons.”
“It’s called Goetia, also called The Lesser Key of Solomon. And it’s somewhere within the city. I can guide you there.”
TWENTY-ONE
“S imon, the old man is awake.”
The communication came over the armor’s frequency so Simon knew their guest wouldn’t take offense. “His name is Archibald Xavier Macomber,” he corrected. “When you address him, address him as Professor Macomber.”
Although he could see Macomber plainly in the HUD, Simon turned to face the old man and opened his faceshield.
Macomber looked disoriented and frightened. He rubbed at one ear like a child.
“Professor Macomber?” Simon said.
The old man looked up at him. “Thomas?” then he caught himself and shook his head. “No, you’re not Thomas. Forgive me. Sometimes it’s hard to wake up.”
“Some days it’s hard for me to wake up too. Would you like anything to eat or drink?”
Macomber hesitated. “Something to drink, perhaps. My stomach doesn’t do very well these days. Perhaps after we get settled and things are not so uncertain.”
One of the Templar pulled a plastic container of water from the ATV stores and handed it to Macomber. The old man fumbled with the seal and couldn’t quite manage it.
Leah opened her helmet. “Allow me to help you with that, Professor.”
Macomber stared for just a moment, then passed the water flask over to Leah. “Thank you, my dear.”
Leah opened the flask and passed it back to the professor. He nodded his thanks and took a sip. Some of the tension left his face.
“Where are we?” Macomber asked.
“Twenty-five miles east of London,” Simon answered. “We’ll be safe and secure in just a little while.”
“I don’t think anywhere is truly safe,” Macomber commented. He smoothed a hand through his wispy white hair. “We did talk about Goetia, right? I didn’t dream that?”
“No,” Simon replied. “We talked about the book. But not enough.” He felt sorry for the old man, and for everything that he had been through, but if he had information about the demons that they needed he had to get to it. “Do you know where the book is?”
Macomber fidgeted. “I’ve never seen the book, but I know it exists. I’ve read sections of it. But none of those sections ever had the names of the demons.” He paused. “That book is important. It can help in the war against the demons.”
“I know,” Simon said. “If it’s everything that it’s said to be.”
Macomber sipped his water again, but Simon sensed that it was a delaying tactic rather than a want or need. The old man was clearly hesitant to trust him.
“You knew my father. He gave his life fighting these demons,” Simon said. “I’ve spent four years of my life fighting them and trying to save those people still trapped within London. I’ve seen the bodies of those people I couldn’t save—men, women, and children—and I’ve held friends who died in my arms.” Surprised at how thick his voice had gotten, he took a deep breath and pushed those sharp emotions away. “I will never betray any trust you invest in me. I swear that to you on my father’s name.”
“I know.” Macomber nodded. “I know that you do. Your father swore an oath to me as well.”
“Templar oaths are not lightly given,” Simon said. He was surprised at the touch of anger in his words, but he didn’t like having to defend his honor or that of the Order. Honor was a sacred thing, a privilege and a duty. It was also to be respected.
“I know that. But I also want you to know that the oath I gave was not lightly given either. The man who gave me the knowledge about Goetia impressed upon me the manuscript’s importance.” Macomber looked at Simon. “You’re familiar with the history of the book?”
“It was written by King Solomon and was also known as The Lesser Key of Solomon. Some say he used the power in the manuscript to bind seventy-two demons into a jar.”
“It wasn’t a jar,” Macomber said. “What Solomon did was bind seventy-two demons from this world. The Templar have searched for this book for a long time. They first found out about the book when they took up residence under Solomon’s temple after the first crusade.”
“I knew about the Templar being there then,” Simon said. “But I didn’t know they were searching for a book.”
“Not everyone believed Goetia existed. Not even the Templar. During that time, the manuscript’s existence caused a great deal of consternation among the Order.”
“But it dealt with the demons.”
Macomber nodded. “The Harbingers—the demons who always first come forth from a Hellgate—had arrived in this world. Solomon had the names of most of those demons that tried to force their way here. He used the knowledge of those names to keep them from arriving and shut down the Hellgate.”
“Can the demons only come through the Hellgates?” Leah asked.
“No.” Macomber shook his head. “The Harbingers and some of the lesser demons come through first to anchor the Hellgate in whatever world the demons are invading. They’re heralds of a sort. Dark and deadly things.”
“Then why use the Hellgate at all?” Leah asked.
“Because only a few demons can come through without it. The majority of them, especially if they’re arriving in number, must use the Hellgate. That’s how we know about the demons. A few of them have always lurked in this world. Now and again, some of them are found, but very few. Part of their glamour, at least of the ones that lurk here, is that no one will believe in them.”
Simon understood that. Phillip the Fair had used that disbelief against the Templar to steal their fortunes and their honor.
“Only the Templar and a few other people over the course of history have believed in the demons,” Macomber said. “Most of them were tried and convicted of heresy. Which at many times in history meant those convicted would be burnt at the stake, drowned, or imprisoned in a madhouse. In the case of the Templar, they were stripped of their riches and their dignity. So you see, even those who believed in demons were reluctant to admit that.”
“There are still some who believe the demons here now are aliens from another world,” Leah said.
Macomber shook his head. “This is the power the demons wield. I fear for all of us.”
“How did Solomon learn about the demons?” Simon asked.
“He didn’t learn about the demons. Others who knew about them told him. King Solomon came to believe through their belief. He didn’t write Goetia, but he caused the manuscript to be written. He claimed credit for authoring the manuscript so no one would challenge its authenticity.” Macomber sipped his water. “Of course, you see how that turned out. No one even believes the manuscript exists.”
“There are some who claim that manuscript was never written during Solomon’s time,” Simon said. “It’s reputed to be a thinly veiled political attack on nobility, which didn’t exist in Solomon’s day.”
“Those were other versions written later,” Macomber said. “They were nothing more than a smokescreen, possibly created by those in league with the demons or those who used Solomon’s name for their own purposes. The true manuscript has become a thing of legend, myth, and make-believe. That’s what the demons do best: cause you to doubt yourself.”
“You said you’d seen sections of the manuscript,” Leah said.
Macomber nodded. “I have. Even those copies that I saw carried the twisted power that is inherent in the demons. I don’t know how anyone can read those manuscripts, let alone write those manuscripts or copy them. I was reading them—more of them after I had talked with your father, Simon—when I had my first…episode.”
Although he was anxious to find out the rest of the story, Simon waited as patiently as he could. It wasn’t easy, but he saw embarrassment and frustration tighten the old man’s features.
“I’d read other sections of the book,” Macomber continued. “There had been adverse reactions before—sickness, nightmares, and periods and I couldn’t remember at all—but nothing like what happened that time. I lost days of my life to the madness. I don’t even really remember much of it. But I do remember that there was a demon in the pages. How it got there, I don’t know. It’s hard to remember. But I do recall that it promised me things. Wealth. Long life. Power. All the things that demons offer so casually. And when I resisted, it threatened to kill my wife and my children.”
