The Keys of Solomon (36 page)

She looked at Henri and smiled. She didn't speak. The pink tip of her tongue caressed full, inviting lips. Sam took a step forward, but a hand caught his arm and held fast. Looking away from Henri, she seemed to see Sam for the first time. She crouched, her hands held before her as if warding off a blow. A rumble started deep in her chest, building, gaining volume until she threw back her head and loosed a feral, high-pitched cry. The ideal of female perfection melted away before Sam's eyes. Within seconds, the woman was gone, replaced by a hideous harpy out of myth and legend.

“Easy, Sam,” whispered Henri. “Follow my lead.”

Sam was too stunned to reply. In many ways, the monster resembled Drammach, the greater demon Sam had killed beneath the grounds of the sanatorium in Abbotsville. Both had the jackal-like snout and almond-shaped eyes the color of milk. However, Drammach had been shorter than Sam's own 6'0”, and thickly built with a powerful chest and shoulders. This creature was neck and shoulders taller than Sam. A gaunt frame gave the monster a ghoulish appearance, its leathery slate-gray skin stretched taut over sharp, angular bones. Heavy, pendulous breasts swung obscenely from a narrow, sunken chest. The creature walked to within a few feet of Henri and stopped.

Loud laughter came from inside the darkened hangar, followed by a familiar voice. “Hey, boy-bitch! I told you we'd meet again. So, how do you like my friends? Huh? What'sa matter, Sammie? Cat got your tongue?”

Henri defiantly stood his ground with arms folded across his chest. In that moment Sam decided the mysterious young man was either extremely sure of himself or extremely stupid. Or both.

Henri called out, “Sam, meet Zynth. She's a demon lord of some reputation. Among Legion, the title of lord isn't genderspecific, you understand.

“She most often appears in a decidedly more appealing shape. After all, she's a succubus. Wouldn't do for her to come to your bed in her present form, now would it? It's a rare event for a human to see Zynth in her corporeal form, and when it does happen, she's usually the last thing that human ever sees in this lifetime.”

Sam's mind reeled. The confrontation back in Abbotsville had been a shock, but this was worse. So much worse. The area of Sam's brain that controlled the “fight or flight” mechanism was in denial and unresponsive, crippled by the sight of the demon.

That thing isn't real. None of this is real. I'm either dreaming or I'm laid up in some Phoenix psych ward, chugging a Thorazine cocktail through an IV.

On the off chance the world had gone crazier than a sack full of cranked-up ferrets and the monster standing before him
was
real, Sam whispered, “Come on, Henri. You're on a first-name basis with that, that
thing
?”

“Why do you always ask me that when I've already said as much? But yes, Zynth and I are old acquaintances. She's dwelled upon this plane long before man received the Divine spark and crawled out of the sea. Perhaps a gentleman shouldn't kiss and tell, but for a time, she and I were lovers.”

Lovers? With
that
? No way! He's pulling my chain.

“Oh, I know what you're thinking, Sam. But really, you have to see her in the right light to fully appreciate her considerable assets.”

“T-tell it, I mean tell
her
, that we want my sister. Now.”

Zynth's head snapped up, her eyes locking onto Sam. Jaws snapping, the demon took a menacing step in his direction. Henri stepped in quickly, moving to block her path, and to Sam's surprise, she stopped her advance.

“You don't want to do this, Zynth,” said Henri. “He comes for his sister and I think he means to have her. Quit this place and take the others with you while you still may.”

The demon waved her spindly arms in the air and emitted a series of high-pitched chirps and whistles. Henri listened intently as the demon ranted. When the odd noises subsided, he called back to Sam.

“Well, cousin, I tried. She says she must kill you and Katherine. Sorry.” Henri stepped to the side, offering the demon a clear path to the Lincoln and Sam.

Bewildered and enraged, Sam stepped out from behind the car. “Sorry? You're
sorry
? You backstabbing son of a bitch!”

The demon kicked aside a crumpled door panel made of plate steel as if it a wadded sheet of newspaper, and lumbered toward Sam. Long strings of smoldering pea green drool dropped to the pavement as Zynth snapped powerful jaws at empty air.

“I'm sorry, Sam, I really am. But she seems rather determined. And while I don't necessarily approve, I do understand her position. After all, Legion has been at war with the Offspring since … well, since Offspring first appeared on this planet. Homicidal hatred for your kind is a natural state of being for Legion. It's engrained in their DNA. Can't really fault them for poor genetics, now can you?”

Henri rambled on while Zynth advanced. As Sam backed toward the car, one of the formless imps swooped down from the roof and slammed into him, raking all too real claws across his head and face. The force of the unexpected blow staggered him, and blood trickled into his eyes from a wide gash across his forehead. The black, fluttering shape soared up into the night sky, made a wide, arcing turn, and came at him again with an unexpected burst of speed. There was no time to seek cover.

Instinctively, Sam thrust out his hand and shouted a single word.

“Burn!”

Living tendrils of brilliant white light lanced out from his fingertips, engulfing the imp in a web of lightning. In an instant, the imp was gone, its smoldering ashes borne aloft by a steady breeze. Sam's celebration was short-lived, interrupted by Zynth's shrill cry.

He whirled about to find the succubus had called for reinforcements. A short, squat man with exceptionally long arms had taken up a position to her left. At least, Sam thought it was a man until he noticed the feral glow of yellow eyes. An imp had landed to Zynth's right and assumed a more substantial form. Sam thought the minor demon looked something like a tall, gangly stork sporting a human head.

More laughter spilled from the hangar. “Hey, Sammie! Looks like you're about to be Zynth's guest for dinner! But don't you worry none about little sista. We're getting along real good!”

Sam tried to push Stevie's taunts from his mind. Before he could help Kat he would have to survive Zynth. The succubus, followed closely by the imp, looped around the front end of the Lincoln, while the manlike demon came at Sam from the left. All three of the monsters appeared cautious, perhaps out of respect for the
quickfire
. Sam also knew that in a few more seconds, it wouldn't matter. Cautious or not, they would cut him off from both the car and the building, leaving him no place to run or hide in the expansive parking lot.

And then, over the pounding of his heart, Sam heard the steady thrum of a low-flying aircraft as it approached the airfield. Desperate, he
reached
.

Where are you, Falco? The plane is landing!

The answer was loud and immediate.
Almost there, Sam. Hang on!

Sam knew that even with the extra firepower, Falco and company would have a difficult time with Little Stevie. Even if they managed to defeat the man-mountain, the Watchers would still have to fight their way past Zynth in order to reach the plane.

Falco, I'm going to draw the rest of them away from the hangar. Get Kat out there and head for the run—”

A shotgun roared from inside the hangar, joined a fraction of a second later by a sustained volley of small-arms fire. Sam broke into a sprint to the south, toward open desert, when he caught a flash of white sail over the hood of the Lincoln. And then, all hell broke loose.

No fire alarm or wailing police siren ever reached the decibel level of Zynth's outcry of pain and outrage. Looking over his shoulder, Sam saw that Henri had launched a preemptive strike. The young man had somehow leaped onto the top of the Lincoln, and then onto Zynth's back, abandoning any pretense of his former genteel demeanor. Stroke after savage stroke, he plunged a long metal blade into the succubus's neck. Smoke poured from multiple gaping wounds as Zynth thrashed about in an attempt to dislodge her diminutive attacker.

Sam cried out a warning as the imp, dissolving once more into a swirling airborne miasma the color of burned motor oil, took flight and dove at Henri's head. Henri either didn't hear the shout or ignored it. The imp darted in, struck Henri's head a glancing blow, then turned skyward. As Henri listed to the left to avoid the worst of the next blow, Zynth caught him by the back of the neck and flung him to the pavement. Henri landed hard on his back, but came to his feet with surprising quickness. He still held on to the odd blade, a fact not unnoticed by Zynth. She advanced with caution.

Sam wanted to help Henri, but he had his own troubles. The man-demon had stopped for a moment, watching Zynth's life-and-death struggle with mild interest, then turned his attention back to Sam. He came forward, one slow, wooden step after another, those impossibly long arms reaching, beckoning.

Sam thrust forth his hand a second time and yelled, “Burn!” Nothing.

Ohshitohshitoh … shit!

“I said, burn!” Again, nothing. Not so much as a spark or flicker of flame. Behind him, the plane touched down and coasted along the runway toward the hangars, its powerful spotlights washing over the surreal battleground.

Sam's eyes darted to the plane and back to the man-demon.
I don't have time for this!
He backpedaled, took a deep breath, then broke into an awkward run that took him a wide loop around the startled demon. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his injured knee, he rushed past the struggling Zynth and Henri, surprised to see the succubus now limp upon the asphalt. Henri hadn't escaped the battle unscathed. Remnants of a once white shirt hung in shreds from the young man's thin shoulders, and long rivulets of blood streamed down one side of his pale, smooth face.

Just as Sam reached the hangar entrance, Falco and Ronni emerged side by side. Both looked as if they'd been run through a gigantic meat grinder. Twice. Falco grabbed Sam by the shoulders and spun him around.

“Head for the runway! Run!” cried Falco.

“Where's my sister?”

“I've got her,” said Enrique as he came through the door. In his arms, he carried the limp, battered form of Katherine Conner. Elliott, gasping for breath and bleeding from a dozen superficial wounds, brought up the rear. As Elliott cleared the door, he turned and emptied the magazine of his handgun into the building. The final round was followed by a bright yellow flash and a small explosion that sent shockwaves rippling through the air.

Sam tried to reach Katherine, but Falco held him fast. “You can't carry her and run. Just get to the plane, Sam! We'll take care of Kat. Now run!”

Sam swallowed the grapefruit-size lump in his throat and nodded. Though badly shaken by Kat's condition, he knew Falco was right. He was spent, wasted, drained of almost all physical and emotional energy. He couldn't have taken ten steps with Kat. In fact, were it not for the desperate need to get Kat to safety, Sam thought he could easily lie down and “give up the ghost.” Tired. So tired of everything.

But quitting wasn't an option. Not yet.
Somebody has to pay for this, and I'm the only one left to collect.

Sam stumbled to his knees as Falco let go of his shoulders. A split second later, Sam smelled the odor of burned hair. Looking up, he saw that the man-demon had stepped out from behind the Lincoln and now loomed above him, poised to strike with those apelike arms. Ronni Weiss appeared at Sam's side, firing the 12-gauge as fast as she could rack the slide and chamber a round. Slug after slug punched large holes in the walking obscenity's upper torso and face. As the demon swayed on unsteady legs and held both hands to its ruined face, Sam tried to roll to his left, out from beneath the demon's reach, but he was a fraction of a second too slow. The monster swung a heavy fist and connected with the side of Sam's face. The boy felt the crunch of bone, then mercifully slipped away into darkness.

CHAPTER 22

Watcher safe house, Metairie, Louisiana

Malcolm Reading sipped his brandy and studied the row of snowy egrets perched atop a line of skiffs and john boats moored along the southern edge of Lake Pontchartrain. Occasionally, one of the birds would take flight and dart down to the water's surface, snatching a morning morsel … before circling high above the manor and shitting on everything in sight.

Filthy little buggers. God, how I hate those fucking birds!

Despite his aggravation with the egrets, Malcolm usually enjoyed time spent on the balcony. It was the one place on the entire estate where he could enjoy a moment of privacy. It also afforded an excellent view of the lake and surrounding area, if one enjoyed such things. Malcolm Reading did not. Aesthetics had meant little to him in his former life, and decidedly less now.

The Watchers purchased the sprawling property for pennies on the dollar during the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, and converted the historic French manor into a four-story safe house for field operatives and intelligence personnel. Nicholas Gilbert had christened the massive estate Le Chateau De Molay, so named after the last official grand master of the Knights Templar. Much had transpired since the christening of the manor, to both the Watcher organization and Sir Malcolm Reading.

Malcolm refilled his snifter, then lit his pipe. Despite the calm, peaceful setting, he had one nerve left and someone was standing on it. The tranquility of a chill November morning had been bruised just before dawn with the miraculous arrival of Enrique and his battered party. The situation looked no better by midmorning light. Malcolm hadn't expected to ever see any of them again, and for good reason, yet they had arrived by private plane a half-hour before sunrise. There had been no advance notification from the pilot until just before the plane touched down on the private airfield, east of the estate. During the debriefing, Malcolm learned that Falco had insisted on radio silence while the plane was in the air.