The Keys of Solomon (27 page)

Not stopping to drag the carcass from the hood, Ronni shifted the transmission into low and stepped on the gas. Seconds later, the Escalade, complete with its hideous hood ornament, crawled out of the sand, caught traction on the asphalt, and headed for the airfield.

*   *   *

With at least one of the monsters dead and the airfield in sight, Kat gave her mother's hand a gentle squeeze. But Amanda Conner, the right side of her body covered in Brian King's blood, was unresponsive. She sat motionless, eyes unblinking, staring blankly ahead. The only sign of life was the occasional rise and fall of her thin chest.

Amanda hadn't heard the sounds of battle around her, or feel the gentle touch of her youngest child. It wasn't that she didn't love her children, nor did she want to leave them, especially not the bright and precocious Kat. It was just that she couldn't see or hear them. Not now, not ever again.

Amanda Conner had retreated from reality a final time, and in doing so, severed the delicate threads that once tethered her to an increasingly cruel and insane world. There was no lighthouse in the distance or a trail of bread crumbs that might lead her back to that dark and dismal world, a world with no future beyond a few days or weeks. And she was happy.

CHAPTER 17

Catholic Archdiocese, Los Angeles, California

Rain from a rare southern California thunderstorm drenched the streets, and fury raged behind jet-black eyes, and sleek, sinewy muscles tensed and relaxed beneath coarse, brindle fur. Days ago, the pair of minor demons had been summoned to this most hated of all earthly places, a place of worship dedicated to He Who Lives Beyond, the entity men called God, or the Creator. Had the demons possessed the will to resist the order, they would have, for even close proximity to such a place was painful, even fatal.

However, they would be well compensated for their discomfort. The great demon lord Vetis had made a pact with one of the human weaklings who dwelled within the sanctuary. How foolish! Only a petty human made any kind of deal with demons and expected fairness in return. Now fully enthralled, the human had granted entry to all who served Vetis. For his faithful service, the human thrall would die a gruesome death. As would others. As would they all.

The demons watched with the patience of supreme predators as a car came down the rain-slick street and stopped in front of the stone and iron gateway that led to the sanctuary. A man stepped out of the car, opened a battered umbrella above his head, and ran the short distance to the sidewalk.

Fortune!
The demons knew this man. He was the true object of tonight's hunt. This human didn't carry the bloodline of the hated Offspring. Blood of another sort coursed through his veins. This puny mortal carried the hereditary mark of the Hunter, the bloodline of men who long dared to track and slay the demons of this world. As did his forefather before him, this man transgressed against the great demon lords. He was old and portly, and age had robbed him of most of his physical strength. And still, he was worthy of caution.

Dangerous. Dangeroussss!

They watched the man lock the tall iron gates behind him, then hurry into the building. The demons loped across the street and crouched beside the stone fence. The largest of the pair peered up into the overcast night sky and tasted the air with its split tongue. Dreaded sunlight was still hours away. Although both demons were capable of hunting by light of day, sunlight robbed them of some of their innate advantages. They preferred the night, a time when men were most sensory-deprived and vulnerable.

The larger demon fell to all fours and trotted away into the night. It sought another route, possibly a rear entrance, where it might not have to share its kills. The smaller of the pair, although by no means small as measured against a normal man, stood up on its hind legs, took hold of the gates, and gave them a violent shake. The gates rattled but refused to budge more than a few inches. The iron bars were too close together and in its natural form, the demon was too broad and muscular to squeeze past. It could shape-shift easily enough, but there was no need. It crouched again, gathering its long, powerful legs beneath it, then in a blur of motion, sprang up and over the eight-foot fence and onto the path beyond.

For several minutes, it stood statue-still, observing the massive structure ahead and testing the air for the scent of men. Instinctively, the demon knew the building ahead had been built long ago as a holy monument, a gathering place for the adopted children of He Who Lives Beyond. However, in all its many years of existence, the building had rarely fulfilled its intended purpose. Instead, it was an ostentatious testament to human vanity, a house of greed, wretchedness, and wanton debauchery; a house in which horrible acts had been carried out for, and by, the very guardians of piety. Vile, self-serving men dressed in black robes and white collars. To be sure, not all of these men were found wanting. But enough. More than enough.

The demon knew little about the priest who had just entered the building, but it could see and smell the aura that clung about him. This man was dangerous; a righteous human and utterly devoted to his Creator.

Dropping down onto all fours, the demon moved along the cobbled path, its senses scanning the building ahead for warding spells or protective talismans. Dependent upon the skill and foresight of the human shaman, blessed artifacts and talismans, combinations of various herbs, or other seemingly mundane items were given limited power over demons. As the demon studied the building, it sensed no such restrictions.

Now, sitting up on the sidewalk that surrounded the building, the demon searched for a suitable entrance. It could easily take down the wooden doors, or even sections of the brick and mortar wall if need be. However the noise would alert the prey and aid his temporary escape.

The demon scanned the second and third stories with keen eyes until it spied a narrow ledge that underscored vaulted windows. Above the ledge, at the rear corner of the building, the tattered edge of a curtain whipped viciously in the wind. Someone had left a window open on the second floor. The demon stood and stretched. It was time to conclude the night's business.

*   *   *

Bishop Gilbert strolled through the sanctuary as he often did when worry plagued his thoughts. He should be resting, conserving his strength for the trials ahead. With the escalation of horrors both home and abroad, the Watcher Hierarchy found themselves on the threshold of a new and terrifying era. The End of Days approached, and it could be many days before he found another opportunity to sleep.

He made his way down the aisle, inspecting the carpet for lint. Such duties were far beneath his station, or so he was often reminded, yet he maintained vigilance over the church like some worrisome grandmother watching over her kitchen. Stewardship of God's house was a sacred trust, and not to be taken lightly. He frowned as he examined items atop the credence table. The water and wine cruets were out of place, and a thin film of grunge covered the lip of the finger bowl. Well, perhaps not grunge, he admitted, but
something
nonetheless. It was unacceptable, at any rate. He would address this lack of attentiveness with his aides, Fathers Carrington and Jimenez. The two priests would give all involved a stern lecture on cleanliness and the virtues of stewardship.

Gilbert refolded the towel, and placed it between the finger bowl and Communion Paten. He stepped back and examined the table with a critical eye, then smiled.
“Parfait, sans défaut!”

His spirits lifted, he started for the study, whistling cheerfully. It was time to face that infernal beast, the fax machine. He expected any number of communiqués from his Catholic European counterparts regarding the recent events in Rome. No doubt he would have an equal number of messages from the Watchers and, hopefully, some good news from Malcolm in Phoenix. Good news would be a welcomed change.

So many monsters, so little time.

As Gilbert started out of the nave, he heard a loud
thump
on the second floor, just above his head. He froze, holding his breath, and strained to hear above the shrill wind that whistled outside the church. “Who's there? Come forward, now!”

After several seconds, Gilbert relaxed. The noise hadn't repeated itself, and he told himself such sounds in the old building weren't at all uncommon. The sanctuary was well known for its occasional groans and moans. Or it could have been the wind, he supposed, blowing open a window and toppling some item or other from a table or shelf.

But it had sounded so heavy! I really should summon Father Carrington and have him check out the upper floors.

Gilbert started again for the study and had nearly reached the door when a loud crash overhead shook dust and plaster from the ceiling.
That's damn sure not any wind
, he thought.
Must call the police!

A sudden noise from the narthex stairwell froze him. When Gilbert looked up, he was startled to see the outline of a man standing at the far end of the second-floor landing. Partially hidden in deep shadow, the man stood motionless. Watching. Waiting. Something about the man's presence struck Gilbert as terribly wrong, and the hair rose along the nape of his neck.

The bishop moved to his left for a better view, but succeeded only in losing sight of the man.
Impossible! There's nowhere to hide along that walkway, and I would have noticed had he entered one of the rooms. Where is he?

After several seconds, Gilbert nearly convinced himself that he had imagined the entire incident, but then the man reappeared, standing just behind the second-floor railing. He was dressed in the tattered clothes of a street beggar, and appeared soaked to the bone. He smiled serenely at Gilbert, and something in that smile made the old bishop's skin crawl.

“You there! Come down from there this instant,” said Gilbert. “I have already called the police, and they will be here any moment.”
Forgive me this lie, dear God, but I'm afraid
.

The beggar turned and walked slowly along the balcony, his dark, feral eyes never leaving Gilbert, the gentle smile never leaving his lips. As the man neared the top of the stairway, Gilbert's blood froze in his veins. Something was terribly wrong with the scene, something he couldn't quite grasp.

As the beggar stared down from the railing, Gilbert recognized the inexplicable contradiction. While the man stood motionless, his elongated shadow writhed and undulated in an obscene fashion, multiple arms flailing in every direction.

Gilbert took a step back and genuflected. “Oh, my God, my Redeemer, behold me here at Thy…”

Before he could finish the opening of the prayer, the beggar peered over the railing at the bewildered priest below. The smile disappeared, replaced by an inhuman scowl that contorted and twisted the human features into a grotesque mask. Though the beggar's lips never moved, a snarl not unlike that of a wounded animal tore through the building, and he vaulted over the railing. Too startled to run, Gilbert stared in stunned amazement as the man fell. The laws of time and motion were suspended as the beggar tumbled haltingly through the air frame by broken frame, while his body underwent an impossible metamorphosis—from man to animal, and from animal to monster.

The creature that landed lightly at Bishop Nicholas Gilbert's feet was unlike anything he had ever,
could
ever, imagine. Rising up on long, muscular hind legs, it loomed over Gilbert, its mouth widening into a hideous, gaping grimace.

A familiar voice called down from the balcony above. “Simple. Devout. No ambition. Isn't that what you said of me, old man?”

Gilbert looked up at the smiling figure of Father Juan Jimenez. “What is this, Juan? Dear God, man, what have you done?”

“Done? I've done nothing, old fool. You brought this upon yourself. Did you think the lords of Legion wouldn't find you out? Did you really believe your pathetic pretend knights would be allowed to hunt Legion with impunity? Arrogant fool!”

Gilbert shook his head with profound sadness. “I—I don't understand. What could make men such as you forsake the Most High God? What bargain have you made with Satan?”

“Satan? Satan!” Jimenez began to laugh. He continued until tears streamed down both cheeks. While he enjoyed the grand joke, the demon inched closer to the archbishop.

“Satan is the Great Pretender, Gilbert! No, I serve a greater power, the greatest collective intelligence in all of Creation, old man, and it has nothing to do with Satan and his little band of cosmic brigands. The angels of your God are less than insects before the might of Legion! Does the name Zynth mean anything to you? No? A shame, that. Were you to live another month, you'd hear that name from the lips of all humanity as they petitioned my queen for their pathetic lives.

“But, really Gilbert, how could you know? The Church is your life and damnation. The Vatican took an intelligent, thinking man and turned him into a blind, foolish puppet. Sad. So sad.

“You know, I tried to warn you for years, Gilbert. Oh, yes. I found my way years ago, all the while playing the part of the obedient errand boy. But I did try to warn you, you know. Just last night I told you a storm was coming. Do you remember? You said I was foolish. Foolish! Well, the storm has come and the Hunter stalks his prey! But don't worry about your little operation here. We're going to take good care of Our Lady. The symbolism of the Church is a powerful tool, as you know. Perfect for fattening the sheep just before the slaughter. But as for the Watchers, I'm afraid the outlook isn't as rosy. We're going to destroy them from the inside out, and I assure you, it's going to be a very, very painful experience. Malcolm Reading has proven himself a master of subterfuge and destruction.”

A storm is coming and the Hunter hunts … Malcolm Reading is the Hunter! Merciful God, what have I done?