The Demons of King Solomon

by Aaron J. French

  “Because, Elizabeth Corbett, you are special. You do not believe in demons or angels.”

  “I… I’m, uh, getting there…”

  “I can hear your thoughts. Part of you believes this is a dream. Part of you wonders if you have gone mad. Only part of you believes any of this. We can work with that, but we need to be fast. We need to beat the clock of your own acceptance.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “No, the world’s insane. This is merely weird.”

  Lizzie had no idea how to respond to that.

  “Now, listen to me,” said the demon, returning to the form of Hans. “I have done what I could do to put you here in this chamber at this moment. We are caught between two beats of your own heart. In five beats the world will catch up to us. That’s why your friend and those… bastards… seem frozen. They are. I’ve slowed down time in this room. When those five heartbeats are done the spell will end and then time becomes real again.”

  “Um, can we pause on that for a moment,” said Lizzie, raising a hand. “You’re a demon. I mean…demon. Right?”

  “Yes. Your point being…?”

  “Demon. Evil. Possession. All that?”

  “Oh, please.”

  “No, really,” insisted Lizzie. “I kind of need to understand this. Why should I help you do anything?”

  “Because you’ll like how it turns out.”

  “Meaning what? You don’t kill me?”

  Hans smiled. “You really think I would want to hurt you? Jeez, Lizzie, get a clue. I’ve done nothing but help you. You are actually rich and famous, and Charlize Theron is going to play you in the movie.”

  “Bullshit. They haven’t even cast the movie yet.”

  “Trust me,” said Hans. “I’m a demon. I can tell you a lot about Hollywood.”

  That, of all of it, seemed somehow reasonable to Lizzie.

  Another whump.

  “Damn it,” said Hans. “Okay, ultra-short course in history because we just ticked a little closer to this ending badly.” He point-ed to the ISIL fighters. “They came down here to free me from the book. They learned how to do that from other books they’ve found in the tombs and mosques they’ve raided. UNESCO thinks they’re burning all that stuff, but they’re not. They’re learning from it. They want to use magic to win the war because they know they can’t do it any other way, no matter how many car bombs they detonate. Four years ago they found a book of binding spells in an old church in Mosul. Very, very dangerous stuff. Since then they’ve been trying to find places like this, where demons have been trapped inside the pages of sacred books.”

  “There are more like this?”

  “Ha. You’d be surprised. There was one in a steel vault ten floors beneath the World Trade Center. Luckily your friend Singh’s people got to the book and removed it before it could be recovered by agents working covertly inside the construction crews.” Hans touched the platform. “This book was hidden and I thought I was safe.”

  “Wait… you don’t want to be free?”

  He looked at her like she was crazy. “Free? Are you nuts? It’s insane out there. Hell, it’s bad enough walking among you guys in an astral form. Have you ever noticed that Hans never liked to be touched? Did you notice that Ami never shook hands with you? Managing corporeal contact is exhausting. Anyway, to answer your question, no. I love being inside my book. There are worlds upon worlds upon worlds in there. I get to fly to distant galaxies. I can dive into the hearts of suns. Ever wonder what it’s like to plunge through a black hole? I’ve done it. Like… a thousand times. So cool.”

  “This is nuts,” said Lizzie.

  “Maybe. But it’s what it is. What’s nuts,” said Hans, “is that if I’m released and bound by the right spell, then I am a slave.” He paused and for a moment there were fires in his eyes. Real fires. She could feel the heat. “A demon enslaved is an awful thing. Hitler had a demon for a while. So did Truman. A fire demon. Truman unleashed it on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. No… you don’t want to see what ISIL could do with a demon that is forced to do their will. Believe me.”

  Lizzie’s mouth was totally dry.

  “I don’t want to be that demon, either,” said Hans. “I… I was an angel once. A long, long time ago. It was so beautiful. When I fell—and, I’ll admit my mistakes—I fell hard and I did some things that… well… they’re things that burn me. Every single day. They burn my heart.”

  The fires abated and she saw tears on his cheeks. They steamed and faded away.

  “I want you to lock me back into my book, Lizzie. Only you can do it.”

  “Why me? And… how?”

  Hans managed a smile. “You are a brilliant scholar, Lizzie. And you’re a bit of a nutjob. I don’t mean that in a bad way. You have a slanted, weird way of thinking. That’s what makes you so good at what you do. That notebook I gave you? I lied when I said no one else had seen it. Plenty of scholars had picked it apart but none of them came close to solving the code. You did. And you found the treasure without much more of my help. Now we’re here, and the Clavicula Salomonis Regis is written in old Greek but with some passages in other ancient languages. There’s some Aramaic, some phonetic Egyptian, some Hebrew and Latin and even Etruscan. The order in which they appear is the code. It would take most scholars too long to figure it out. I can hold the ISIL creeps for another heartbeat and then we’re back in the mix, and there are more of them coming. You need to rebind me into the book and that will save us all.”

  “If more are coming, then…”

  “I’ll give you what help I can,” said Hans. “When the time is right. There will be a moment, just a flash, between the reading of the binding spell and its full effect. In that moment, I’ll do what I can.”

  Whump.

  “Okay,” said Lizzie. “Let me try.”

  17

  The Red Library of Firozkoh

  Now

  Lizzie stood over the book and tried not to feel absurd. This was like the ending of Raiders of the Lost Ark and she truly did not want her face to melt off if she got this wrong.

  She read through the text. There were six pages of the book that focused on the nature and names of Hanar. And seven that concerned themselves with the ritual of binding.

  Seven, she thought. That’s good. Seven is an important number in the Bible.

  She read through the spells, and it was frustrating how the writing switched from one language to another, even in the middle of sentences. She read it through, though, and straightened.

  “What’s wrong?” demanded Hanar. His form seemed to flicker between Hans, Ami, some unknown Korean guy, and even both of Lizzie’s ex-lovers. Then he was the demon. Then he was some old guy dressed in clothes that seemed to be made of pure light. Then he was Hans again.

  “This doesn’t make sense. Can’t you give me some help?”

  “Um, it’s a binding spell designed to imprison me. Pretty sure it was written so I could not read it, understand it or—”

  “Yeah, yeah, got it.”

  She re-read it.

  And re-read it. Looking for patterns. Deciphering words. Fitting things together. Some of it came easily. Some hurt her brain to sort through it. And some… well, some seemed too absurdly easy, which made her mistrust it.

  She re-read it again, shifting her own thoughts. There were words in bunches and words out of order. When she connected them into the only logical pattern they each formed a phrase. Always the same phrase, no matter in what language or dialect. The same phrase, carrying the same meaning. And it was something she had seen before.

  It can’t be that, she thought. It can’t be that easy.

  “Oh… crap,” she said.

  “What?” barked Hanar, nervous as hell.

  “No way,” she said.

  “What?” cried Ami.

  “I…” She stopped and looked at him. “I can’t tell you.”

  “Does that mean you figured it out?”

  Lizzie smiled. She turned he
r back on him. Closed her eyes.

  “Thank you, Hans,” she said quietly. “Thanks for everything. Peace to you…”

  There was no answer. As she knew there would not be.

  Whump.

  She stood staring at the wall for a long, long time. Tears broke from the corners of her eyes and ran down her cheeks, clung to the edge of her jaw and then fell to the cold stone floor.

  When she looked up there were no figures hanging in the air. She heard the scrape of a shoe and a grunt of pain and turned to see Mahip Singh climb shakily to his feet, one hand pressed against his bloody side. He was pale and confused. Around them, sprawled still and cold, were the bones of six men. Not bodies. Bones. Even their guns were rusted and pitted with age, as if they had been in the Red Library for three thousand years.

  “Lizzie…?” said Singh, his voice tight with pain. “What happened?”

  She reached out and touched the book. It was warm, the pages felt like living skin rather than old papyrus. She closed it and placed it into the chest. The lid trembled and dropped shut and there was a heavy rattle all around as the bands shivered and flapped back into place and the chains reconnected themselves. The bolts whipped up and dropped back into their slots, and there was a last whump and then it was all sealed and whole and untouched.

  “It can’t be that easy,” Lizzie said again.

  Singh came and stood beside her. “What do you mean?”

  “I figured it out,” she said, her voice sounding distant even to her own ears.

  “Figured what out?”

  “The secret to the binding spell.” She explained about Hans and Ami, about Hanar and his desire to be free within the infinite worlds that were only open to him when he was not the slave of some human trying to build a temple or tear down the world. The key to everything. The thing that made the magic work.

  “I still don’t understand,” said Singh. “What was the key?

  “I found it first in a notebook,” she said. “And then on the wall when I found the treasure.”

  “You mean Eberhard’s code?”

  “Not all of it. Just the most important part. A gift to whoever found it, and a suggestion for how to figure it out.”

  “Figure what out?” asked Singh.

  She smiled. “Everything.”

  “What was it? What was this secret code?”

  She took her water bottle out of its slot of her belt and poured some onto her left palm. Using the tip of her right index finger she wrote the phrase. In Aramaic, in Greek, in Latin and Hebrew. In French and in English. The last three words of Eberhard’s code. The most important part.

  And in this case, the blessing at the end of a binding spell. The thing that allowed the trapped demon to be free within the infinite worlds of his prison.

  Peace to you.

  Singh looked at it, and at her.

  “No,” he said, “it can’t be that easy.”

  “That’s what I said,” Lizzie murmured.

  They exited the Red Library and reset the shrubs so that they faced the right way. They spent ten minutes erasing all signs of the soldier’s presence. When they left the area, Lizzie drove the small Jeep they’d come in and Singh drove the ISIL truck. It was nearly forty minutes before the C4 Singh had placed down in the tunnels exploded, bringing down a million tons of sandstone. The Minaret of Jam wobbled for a while, but it did not fall.

  They drove away and within half a day they were flying back to Canada.

  Lizzie spent much of the flight looking out at the stars in the night sky. Wondering where Hanar was.

  “Peace to you,” she said softly.

  ORNIAS

  Ornias is a key figure in the pseudepigraphal Testament of Solomon, one manuscript of which refers to him as “the pesky demon Ornias.” We are introduced to him because of a little boy, who is either a master craftsman working on Solomon’s Temple or the son of the master craftsman (depending upon how the Greek is translated). At sunset Ornias comes and takes away half his food, and sucks on his right thumb, presumably stealing his energy, for the little boy grows thin.

  Solomon, given a magical ring by the archangel Michael, gives it to the boy in turn, who uses it to subdue the demon. Interrogated by the king, Ornias says that he resides in the zodiac sign of Aquarius, and adds, “I strangle men in Aquarius because of their passion for women whose zodiacal sign is Virgo. Moreover, while in a trance I undergo three transformations. Sometimes I am a man who craves the bodies of effeminate boys and when I touch them, they suffer great pain. Sometimes I become a creature with great wings (flying) up to the heavenly regions. Finally, I assume the appearance of a lion. In addition, I am descended from an archangel of the power of God, but I am thwarted by Ouriel [Uriel], the archangel.” It also emerges that, like many demons, Ornias is afraid of iron.

  Solomon gives Ornias his seal and commands him to bring up Beelzebul (or Beelzebub), prince of the demons, who in turn calls up a number of other demons at Solomon’s command. At the end of the text, Ornias predicts, correctly, that an old man who is being abused by his son will kill the son in three days. Solomon asks the demon how he can know the future. He replies, “We demons go up to the firmament of heaven, fly around among the stars, and hear the decisions which issue from God concerning the lives of men.”

  Ornias also tells Solomon that the demons have no waystation in which to rest in heaven, so, he says, “we fall down like leaves from the trees and the men who are watching think that we are stars falling from heaven.” By falling, “we burn cities down and set fields on fire.”

  Under the name Orias, he appears in The Lesser Key of Solomon and is described as a “great Marquiz” who governs thirty legions of spirits. He takes the form of a lion riding on a horse, with a serpent’s tail, and holding two hissing serpents in his right hand.

  He teaches knowledge of the powers of the stars and of the mansions of the planets. He also transforms men, confers dignities and prelacies, and grants the favor of friends and foes.

  MISCHIEF

  RICHARD CHIZMAR

  Jim Hall was finishing up a phone call when Warwick poked his head into the office.

  “Wait till you hear what—”

  Jim held up a finger, silencing Warwick, and said goodbye to the councilwoman on the other end of the line. She had a loud, grating voice and he was glad to be rid of her.

  “Sorry about that. What’s up, boss?”

  Warwick glanced around the office and made a face. “This place is a pigsty.” He was five-four, weighed a Snickers bar away from two hundred pounds, and seemed in perpetual need of a haircut and a mustache trim. His employees called him The Walrus, but never to his face. This discretion was based on kindness, not fear. Warwick was well liked by his staff.

  “You say that every time you come in here.”

  “Because it’s true.” Warwick moved a stack of file folders from a chair onto the floor. He sat down and wiped his hands on the front of his pink golf shirt. “It’s fucking disgusting.”

  Jim scribbled a follow-up question for the councilwoman on a notepad before he could forget it. Definitely an email, he thought. No more phone calls. He looked up at Warwick. “It’s not disgusting, it’s just… cluttered.”

  “Your mind is cluttered.”

  “Yes, it is, and you pay me to write the news, not to clean house, so what’s up? You looked excited when you first graced me with your presence.”

  “I am excited.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’m trying.” He looked around the room again. “It’s hard to concentrate.”

  Jim sighed. “Just tell me.”

  His boss leaned forward and smiled. That was another thing: Warwick had braces. The clear kind that were supposed to be invisible but weren’t. Add them to his cherub face and big brown eyes and overall shaggy demeanor, and he looked a lot like your typical high school sophomore.

  “You remember that series you wrote about the Inner Harbor murders?”

 
“Sure.” Jim picked up a pen and started fidgeting. Click. Click. Click.

  “Didn’t make us many fans in the police department, but the readers ate it up.”

  Jim nodded. He remembered. Click. Click. Click.

  “Well, someone else—someone pretty interesting—just recently got their hands on it, and I think it’s safe to say you have a new number one fan.”

  Click. Click. Click. “Tell me.” Warwick was a natural-born story-teller and loved to drag things out. Jim was used to his dramatic flourishes.

  “Does the name Lester Billings mean anything to you?”

  Jim dropped the pen onto his desk and sat up. “The Aquarius guy?”

  Warwick’s smile got bigger. “One and the same.”

  “What about him?”

  “He read your series and loved it.”

  “And?”

  “He wants to meet with you.”

  Jim got up from behind the desk, heart starting to pound in his chest. “When?”

  “As soon as it can be arranged. His attorney is calling me back later this afternoon.”

  “Jesus.”

  Warwick rubbed his hands together. “You just won the lottery, Jim.”

  “All these years, he’s never talked to the press.”

  “Nope.”

  Jim started pacing, his mind working. “Is he still in Pennsylvania?”

  Warwick nodded. “Pittsburgh.”

  “He’s gotta be… what, in his sixties by now?”

  “Sixty-seven.” Warwick stood up and offered his hand. “Congratulations, Jim. You deserve this.”

  Jim skipped the handshake and went in for a hug. “Thank you, boss.” He slapped Warwick on the back. “Thank you.”

  ***

  Lester Everett Billings. White male. Devoted husband. Father of two lovely daughters. College educated. Local business owner. Avid fly fisherman. Volunteer volleyball coach. By all accounts, a good family man, neighbor, co-worker, and friend.

  And one of the most prolific serial killers in modern history.