Seal of Solomon (Journeyman Book 2) (33 page)

“Well, regardless of how carefree or hard-pressed the journey is, we’ll be on it with ya, brother. Wherever that road takes ya and whoever it leads ya to, I’ll be right there to make sure they don’t fuck it up.”

“Haha,” Joey chuckled. “Bad luck for them if they do, eh?”

“Yessir. They’d get quite the beastly wallop.”

“So, what do we do now?” Joey asked just as Adrienne came up from behind to join the two of them.

Gage turned her way, wrapping a burly arm around her shoulder. He drew her close and took a satisfying whiff of tea tree and mint from her freshly washed hair, the smell forever burned in memory. He then brought his other arm around Joey, tightly pulling him in as they all looked out from the deck together.

“Gotta say we make one hell of a team,” he said to the nods of the others.

Marcus hurried his way out of the forecastle, planning to head back down toward the galley. He hadn’t eaten all day and was getting quite short tempered, mainly with himself but also anyone unfortunate enough to get close him. That is, until he eyed Joey from the back, looking out with Gage and Adrienne. All of his negative thoughts dispelled.

What a gorgeous sight,
he thought, staving his hunger for a minute to walk up to them.

“Excuse me,” he said quietly, strumming his fingers on Joey’s shoulder. “I’m heading downstairs for a quick bite to eat and was wondering if you’d like to join me, if you’re not too busy, of course?”

Joey returned a smile and upon looking to Gage, noticed him wearing one of his trademarked shit-eating grins.

“I recommend ya’ll get something other than the pancakes,” Gage whispered before shoving Joey right over to Marcus.

They both crashed playfully into each other, nearly falling over, yet managed to stay upright with some very creative contortions.

“Sorry about that,” said Joey, their faces right up close. “Gage…”

“Haha, that Gage,” he replied, looking briefly down at himself, growing in excitement, before bringing that deep stare back up. Their eyes locked and Marcus casually blew through Joey’s hair, taking a free hand to swipe it away from his face. “I know about that guy all too well now. But enough about him, are you alright?” His expression reformed into one of concern, having never felt this way about anyone before. The arm he had supporting Joey’s back grew firmer.

“Me?” Joey replied, trying to hide a ridiculously huge smile and other, lower forms of expression. “Yeah, I think I’m going to be just fine. Especially now.”

“Good stuff,” Marcus replied as they both separated, walking side by side toward the stairs.

Gage was watching them intently, waiting to see if anyone was going to hold hands or do anything remotely romantic, so he could interrupt the tender moment with one of his witty remarks. But as they actually did so, he found himself staying quiet in Joey’s happiness, turning back toward Adrienne with his own hand nestled in hers.

“So, back to Joey’s question: what now?” she repeated, looking to a section of sky that was shifting its way to sunset. She looked positively radiant.

“For us? I think that we have no choice but to continue striving,” he replied, keeping his eyes on her. “We still have three other items to get before the Noctis do. I think answers to that are back in New York, if not other places in the worlds. But first things first: I think it’s time we were homeward bound, for the Lodge. Gotta say, I’m missing my pistol.”

“Apparently more than you've missed me,” she snipped, whipping her head to the side. Unable to hold the rouse, she slid a smirk back over to him as he ran his fingers through her hair, then down her side.

“Nah,” he denied, pulling her in close for an embrace. “When you have something special, you learn one way or another to hold onto it tight. I lost you once and nearly myself in the process; that ain’t happening again.” He pointed up. “Brightest star in my sky, remember?”

“I do,” she said, closing her eyes and nuzzling into her favorite spot on his neck. That intoxicating musk still smelled fantastic as ever, carrying her into a blissful state of relaxation. Then, her eyes shot back open. “Oh no! The Lodge isn't going to be a total shit hole is it?” she asked, suddenly remembering the state of the dishes after the coven attack.

That seemed so very long ago now.

“Please,” Gage said dismissively, eyebrow cocked. “It’s me.”

IT WAS ABOUT TWO
o’clock in the dark hours of the morning and the crowd inside Hangman’s had begun to die down. A slow trickle of patrons exited the sordid bar, washed in nauseating neon reds and blues before vanishing in the gloom down the murky streets.

A heavily inked man slunk into the empty alley behind the place, tugging on his loose pants every few steps – the jeans several inches too big for his rail-like frame. Before long, he had reached a dead end and immediately kneeled in front of an ominously graffiti-free brick wall, its surface shiny with condensation with a threatening red tint.

He was covered in green tattoos, intricate and beautiful, which peeked out from every bit of his exposed, thin skin. The beard that hung off his chin was short and scraggly, comprised of more empty patches than hair.

From inside deep denim pockets, his skittish hands pulled out a stick of chalk and a switchblade, setting them down on the cold ground in front of him. He then shut his eyes and breathed deeply.

“Here goes nothing,” the man said so softly that even he struggled to hear his own words. Trembling hands set their fingertips onto the pavement and he spoke meticulously, each word heavy with concern. “I pray to thee: grant me the strength and the power to execute my desires, which at the end I shall be indebted for all thy help.”

Opening his hazel eyes again, he reached over to pick up the chalk and drew out a rough white pentagram on the asphalt, finishing it off with an inverted cross in the center.

“Momma ain’t gonna be too pleased with that one,” he said, trying to ease the building tension. He then drew up the blade into his closed palm and swiped, dripping his life out onto the outer edge of the circle.

Crimson splashed against the white dust and the symbol shimmered, each subsequent drop causing the night around him to grow darker. The wind thrashed its way down the narrow passage like lashes from a whip, kicking up debris as it went along like shrapnel. The whirlwind of glass and metal beat against the biker’s skinny body. It hurt him and so great was the pain that he began to doubt this Pact was even worth it. His ears rang excruciatingly while his head pounded and with fear mounting, the desire to flee engulfed him.

In that instant the wind was gone and a abysmal voice came from all directions.

“Who are you?” it demanded to know.

“Oh my fucking God… an answer! My name? Oh shit! My name is Wilson Drake, demon.” He chuckled a bit, amazed that such mumbo-jumbo had finally worked.

The alleyway rumbled. “Wilson Drake, I am the great demon Dajjal. Why have you summoned me here?”

“I… I want my bike back,” he said weakly, still amazed he was talking to a real-life demon, “and to get revenge on the Snake Eyes for casting me out. Oh and for burning up my property.”

No wonder this fool was in such a rut; he was feeble and weak. He was not speaking to a run of the mill, lesser demon. No, he was addressing one of the direct servants of Lucifer himself and the thought of such a meager Pact was a bitter pill to swallow. Yet, Dajjal would stow his pride for now, as Astaroth managed to get this man a direct line to him in the unfathomable bowels of Hell. Kneeling down on that pavement was Dajjal’s ticket out of Hell, albeit one pathetically gangly ride.

That would change soon enough, the cogs already starting to turn. “Oh yes,” Dajjal answered ominously, “I can certainly help with this dilemma of yours, but Pacts are only as good as what is offered in trade. What do you have, mortal?”

“My soul, right? Isn’t that how it works? I'll trade you my soul for -”

“Your soul?” Dajjal countered with a sinister chuckle. “No, that won’t do at all. You see, I can look into your soul, Wilson Drake, and I must ask you: what would I do with such a sniveling, wretched little thing like that? It is hardly worth my time.” Dajjal waited silently for his reply; he didn’t have to wait long.

Wilson dropped his head low. “That’s what THEY would call me,” he replied, balling up his fists, which began to shake. “The others would say that all the time… Scrawny. Weak. Pitiful.”

“I can see why,” Dajjal replied, feeling the negative energy surge. Wanting it. “I must say, I do agree with their assessment. Alas, if only one of them had summoned me instead.”

Wilson was fuming, stabbing a finger adorned with a skull rings randomly at the air. “Look here fucker! I called you here to help me and I own your ass right now, you piece of shit! If you can’t help, then why don’t shut your fucking yap and crawl back down to Hell where you belong?”

“Oh no, I don't think so…” Dajjal replied, manifesting himself as a raging inferno. “I’ve only been top-side for a few minutes and can tell I don't ever want to leave.”

If such a sight appearing out of thin air weren’t terrifying enough, the swirls of shadow and flame taking the shape of a beast twelve feet tall would make anyone shit their pants. Wilson was no exception and felt the warm rush of piss down his legs. Otherwise motionless with fear, he continued to sit in his own waste with mouth agape.

That's when Dajjal struck, taking the opportunity to enter him forcibly, fueled by the chance that his uninvited presence could easily overpower Wilson’s frail mind and body.

“Stop it!” Wilson cried, streams of blood pouring out of great fissures that were tearing across his body. The pain was infinite and colors like a tempest twirled and blasted his vision. “GET OUT!”

“SILENCE!” Dajjal commanded as he overcame Wilson’s mind, the potent negative energy coursing through him and obliterating any trace of the person that he once was. The kaleidoscope of colors shifted to white, then eternal black as his body broke and reformed into one much more befitting such a powerful leader.

Then, as swiftly as it began, the maelstrom ended and the alley behind Hangman’s was again empty as the surrounding night.

THERE WAS A LOUD
boom
as if the cloudy sky tore apart and Dajjal appeared in the middle of a quiet, potholed street. Abandoned houses lined both sides of the road, stretching off into the distance somewhere in suburban America. The sidewalks were pale and cracked, electrical lines strewn all over them and throughout the bleak, brown lawns.

“Ah there you are my Lord!” Astaroth trumpeted, raising his hands in praise on the steps of one of the homes. “And my, what a grand host you have found for yourself.”

“I agree,” Dajjal replied confidently, stretching out his now muscular arms before running his fingers delicately down the ridges of his well-defined midsection. “This one now suits me well enough.”

He glanced around at their pitiful surroundings, stroking the hairs of his thick beard. The place was dingy, dusty, and decrepit – hardly a place worthy of a Hell Knight alone, never mind a meeting between one and the Steward of the Kingdom of Hell. His nostrils flared as he found himself appalled.

“So answer me this, Great Duke, where is the bitch Onoskelis? Was she too afraid to meet me after all of her ridiculous failures or too proud to come here, amongst the ruins of human avarice?”

Astaroth stayed quiet, unsure of an answer would satisfy Dajjal. He could sense something in him, rising from the depths of shadow and it frightened him. Doubting his decision to help bring him into the world, Astaroth shrank away slowly as to not draw attention to himself.

“In any case my dearest rescuer, I need to see her. Immediately. There are some urgent lessons that need to be taught to that little girl.”

He bowed. “Yes, of course. I shall arrange your passage to Whittingham, my Lord, to await her return from the Peruvian gate,” Astaroth whispered diligently.

Dajjal’s eyes glimmered at Astaroth’s words, which he found hollow and empty. “I already know the way,” he stated, whistling. At once, a razor flew from his pocket, wasting no time slicing across the Hell Knight’s neck before causally returning to his hand, coated in a layer of shining red. Dajjal brought it to his mouth and licked the blade clean, savoring the bitter taste.