The Demon Signet (28 page)

He hears the helicopters. Police. He figures they are simply evaluating the grim situation backing up across I-81, but he knows that he cannot count on it. By now, the Brotherhood will be anxious, wondering why he hasn’t acquired the ring yet.

He reaches out with his mind, feeling his demons leading it somewhere, to some—

His eyes snap open with revelation and surprise.

He’s chipped. From some unknown time and in some unknown situation, the Society had tagged him. He pulls the glove off his left hand and traces his bare fingers down his leg to his thigh. He can feel it just below the hip, buried deep in his muscle.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he reaches up and flings the visor down, pulling off the six-inch blade that’s clipped to it. He slides the knife across his pants, splitting the material and the flesh beneath it. Blood darkens the fabric, and he sticks his bare finger into the wound, pushing deeper, through the muscle, searching…searching.

There.

It takes him a few minutes to work the chip out in one piece. It’s only the size of a splinter, and when he finally holds it up to his eyes, he can barely see it. He curses it, opens the door, and drops it onto the ice. Then he smashes it with the heel of his boot, his thigh throbbing from the impact.

Shutting the door, he leans back and closes his eyes again. The knife, still resting in his lap, bursts into flame. He picks it up and brings the blade to his eyes, the twirling fire reflecting off of his glasses, the windshield, and the rearview mirror. He knows that some of his stranded neighbors take notice. He presses the flat side of the blade against his thigh, and the flame melts his flesh, cauterizing the wound. He doesn’t flinch. He’s too angry to flinch. In fact, he
likes
the pain, for it clears his head and helps establish his concentration…his
connection
.

He puts the fire out with a puff of air from his lips and clips the knife back to the visor, flipping it back up.

So the Society has been tracking him from day one… This startles him. If they had known where he was at all times, why had they not come after him again, after their first attempt had failed? But more of a mystery than that, and one slightly more meaningful at the present moment, was why, until now, had his spirit friends waited to reveal this to him?

The helicopters fly overhead again, their spotlights evaluating.

He knows the demons have orchestrated this little highway extravaganza, that they have intervened so as to finally ensure his possession of the ring.

But as has become custom to him these last couple of days, the optimism of such a thought is short lived, the lingering surf in the shadow of the next crashing wave. The four people in the Saab…how could they possibly still have it? Surely they have figured out by now that the ring is the magnet to their misery, and that to escape the horror pursuing them they need only to rid themselves of it. Could its temptation be so strong that they would rather die than to part with its power?
Or…
He shakes his head, but the thought completes itself before he can chase it away. The girl
did
try to get rid of it. She threw it from the car, which is why he stopped to search the roadside. He suddenly wonders if maybe they
can’t
get rid of the ring, no matter how hard they might try.

This puzzles him, and he knows instantly that
this
is why he hasn’t been able to apprehend the legendary ring himself.

No.

He must not think this way. He must—

The ring is on the move, heading south.

He opens the door and steps into the blizzard, the wind tearing at his coat like a sail in a hurricane. His hat is lifted from his head and flung into the night. At first he limps, but with each step he grows stronger, more determined. He can see the black, bony figures of slinking demons crawling over the vehicles around him, marching like a victorious army to acquire its prize, himself their leader…their god.

A person in a white Honda opens the passenger door just as Jonathan walks up beside it. The door misses him, but the man, standing to stretch his arms toward the angry sky, bumps into him. Jonathan plants the bloody palm of his bare hand against the back of the man’s head and thrusts his face through the window of the opened door. He walks on without looking back, the man hanging from the broken glass jowls, blood squirting through the night, while the screams of a woman and child echo forth from within the car.

He walks faster, down the dotted line of the icy highway. He moves like an apparition in the wind, not having to shield himself from its fury or lean his body weight into its pressing. He is walking in concert with another force, one that transcends the natural world. And in mere minutes, he will introduce that world to this one, bridge the gap that has separated them for so long now. How fitting, he thinks, that though the Christ child was not actually born on December 25th, it will be on the eve of the Incarnation’s celebration that that little Bethlehem baby and all His silly prophecies will finally be defeated.

He
is prophecy. Jonathan. King of Demons, the Asmodeus of Solomon’s Testament…the Crest of Dragons.

He walks on through the night, eyes aglow with anticipation. He is close to the Judgment ring, to accomplishing what Solomon himself could not. He will not use the demons the ring controls to build some temple for God.
Heaven is my throne, earth is my footstool. Where is the house you will build for me?
God had asked. Well, He will get no temple from Jonathan, not in Israel and certainly not in his heart. Jonathan will use the ring to destroy God, to
become
God. That is what the demons had promised him long ago, and that is what he is on his way to see fulfilled now. The Brotherhood will try to stop him. He welcomes their effort, for the New Age that he will usher in tonight is not the one the Society has been conspiring to bring about. This is not their Armageddon, nor is it God’s. It is strictly his alone.

****

Running down the highway, their feet sliding through the snow that now covers the ice, Ian, Heather, Marcus, and Ashley tried ignoring their frozen faces, hands, and feet. The wind was harsh, its chill cutting straight through to the bone, at times literally pushing them backward. They were moving low between the two lines of cars and trucks, seeking some degree of shelter from the howling winds. The shining headlights pierced the curtain of snow enveloping their world, highlighting the license plates along their path. New York, Pennsylvania, Maine, Virginia, Quebec. Christmas music drifted through the chaos, different songs from different vehicles faintly humming through the silent night—though an unholy one for sure. Their clothing, though fortified by the diner’s late owner, would not be enough to insulate them from such a cruel exposure. They couldn’t keep this up. The Adirondack adventure had been perilous enough, but with this wind and blinding snow… Once the storm passed, the rescue teams would marvel at the ice sculptures that stood blocking the doors of neighboring cars, paused in mid-motion right there on the dotted line, faces frost-covered, eyes glass and looking north as if running from some infernal monster, their bodies resembling that of Lot’s wife, frozen pillars on the way back to Sodom. And yet, they ran on, spurred forward by the looming sense of doom they could feel on their heels.

Marcus was moving, his face turned away from the wind, his hand clasped over Ashley’s like a vice. Their black and white skin would forge together in ice before he even thought of letting go of her. The snow was coming down so hard and fast that it was already starting to accumulate on the hoods of running cars, the heat from their motors not able to fend off the winter attack. Ian and Heather were ahead of him, though he could barely see them. Every so often, the wind would settle down for a moment, and the snow would swirl more gently, letting him glimpse further ahead.

Though Marcus knew remaining in the car was not a preferable option, he didn’t see how this plan was much better. Not unless they found shelter in the next ten minutes. Perhaps they could find an RV, beg and plead its occupants for their hospitality. But would such a request then put any kind Samaritans in danger? A quick reflection back to their most recent acquaintances promised a grim assurance. The police officer, George, Joyce, Charles… Anyone who offered their help would unknowingly be inserting themselves within an established pattern of untimely death, and Marcus couldn’t live with that. However, it was Ian who was leading the way, and there was no telling what was going through his mind anymore. In any event, they couldn’t walk all the way to Maryland, not in this.

He heard a noise above him. At least he thought it was above him. With the swirling nature of the storm, it was impossible to know or see exactly where the sound was originating from. He looked upward anyway and didn’t realize that he’d stopped moving until Ashley bumped into him.

“What is it?” she screamed over the weather.

“I don’t know!”

The car beside them, a salted Intrepid, lit up, the driver switching on the interior light. At the same moment, another car door banged shut and a beam of light came waving through the air, the driver of the car ahead approaching the Intrepid. He didn’t see Marcus and Ashley, but he seemed to hear whatever it was that had made Marcus look up into the dark cauldron. Marcus could only hear a few words here and there as the man with the flashlight talked to the Intrepid’s driver through a cracked window.

“—don’t know—”

“—enough gas—”

“—crazy—”

“—Christmas—”

“—National Guard—”

“—morning—”

“—Santa—”

Laughter.

“—hear that?”

“—what—”

“—up—”

That’s when the man aimed the flashlight up into the heavens. The beam didn’t penetrate the wall of spiraling snow, but it did, for the briefest of moments, stab at something that was there hovering over the median.

“—strange—”

“—army—”

Marcus cursed the wind’s theft of the full conversation. Whatever was there over the median, they had seen it. He thought about leading Ashley around to the other side of the car and simply asking them what it was they saw, but something in his gut warned that perhaps he should be moving
away
from whatever it was and not toward it.

“—return to your—”

Despite the whistling wind slamming his ears and hiding all but a few scattered words, he could tell that this latest dialogue did not come from the drivers of the two cars. He peered across the Intrepid’s hood, through the glowing light bouncing off the license plate fixed to the car ahead, and just made out the form of a third figure.

Ashley pulled him away, yanking him toward Ian and her sister.

The third man was hard to see because he was completely in black. As the driver of the car ahead quickly returned to its sanctuary, the third man stepped between the two cars. Though his movement was quick, and he appeared only as a fleeting shadow passing through the headlights, Marcus didn’t fail to miss the manner in which the man moved—his body position and what he was holding out in front of him. This was not the National Guard searching for motorists that were running low on fuel and in danger of freezing to death.

He gave into Ashley’s urging and allowed himself to be dragged south, away from the many shadows of creeping figures passing between cars, all crouched low, weapons held ready. Not knowing what was happening but finding it hard to believe that Navy SEALs had chased a terrorist into the traffic jam, Marcus quickly found his legs moving again, and soon
he
was the one pulling Ashley along.

He searched ahead for any sign of Ian and Heather, but all he could see was the faint glow of nearby headlights, some of which were beginning to blink out, plunging the highway into greater darkness.

Ashley screamed just as he heard it. A giant
whoosh
followed by something striking him in the head. It almost knocked him down.

A rope.

“What the…” The air was suddenly different. He looked up to see the underbelly of a black helicopter, ropes dangling over its side and waving wildly in the wind. Men began sliding down the ropes, falling from the mouth of the storm. Marcus wasn’t overly familiar with military equipment, but he had seen enough movies to know that the insect-looking men had night vision equipment strapped to their heads. He ran, hoping Ashley could keep up, as the soldiers hit the ice behind them.

Part of him, the optimistic side, wanted to run straight to the black-fatigued men and beg them for protection against the forces of hell that were surely coming. But the more critical part of him warned that these men were not here to protect anyone. He didn’t know what was going on, and he prayed through numb lips as he led Ashley out of the road’s center, passing between a pickup occupied by a bearded man and his old, sad-eyed canine and a Civic full of college students keeping warm by smoking weed and making out. He was surprised to find inches of snow already covering the road’s shoulder. He considered hopping the guardrail and taking off through the white field across from them, wanting to get far away from I-81, but Ashley’s voice brought a screeching halt to those ideas.

“We need to find Heather!” she screamed in his ear.

He nodded. They’d find Ian and Heather first. But if
they
had already abandoned the interstate, if they’d seen the soldiers and fled the road, then they would be nearly impossible to find.

Twenty-nine

The driving snow does not hinder his vision as it does everyone else’s. The forces within him, writhing and churning now, struggle for dominion and exert their influence, providing him with perceptions uncanny to the natural order. This is how he sees the helicopters, their rotors beating silently in the air, their pilots struggling to maintain control in the storm. He sees the soldiers rappel from the lines and hit the ground with rifles raised, night-vision mounted to their helmets. He doesn’t know who these men belong to. CIA, SWAT, FBI, Delta Force… He knows the Society has access to them all. No doubt their mission is to take out a dangerous terrorist equipped with some kind of WMD. Anthrax, a suitcase nuke, bubonic plague, it doesn’t really matter, does it?