Marcus couldn’t quite understand what he was seeing, and the abrupt nature of the violence left him too startled to react for a moment. He didn’t know what was happening to his friend, but if he didn’t do something to stop him right now, he thought Ian might actually kill her. There was madness in his eyes, a crazed fury that reeked of insanity. Ian was gone again, taken to a place even further away than wherever the last episode had taken him. He was about to kill his pregnant fiancée.
When the shock wore off, Marcus lunged forward between the two seats and began struggling to release Ian’s grip on Heather’s throat. Ashley was screaming. “White Christmas” was playing. Heather’s face was turning red, her eyes wide with the shock of betrayal.
But it was Ian who claimed betrayal. “You lied to me,” he seethed, still operating the car down the road with his free hand. “You lied.”
Afraid that Ian might crush her larynx at any second, and with no other ideas coming to him, Marcus began punching his friend in the side of the head. Ian’s right eye split open, but he didn’t let go. Marcus kept punching.
Ashley forced herself up past Marcus, pulled Ian’s sleeve up, and planted her open mouth right on Ian’s forearm. She bit down with the ferocity of a lioness defending her pride, and once her teeth sunk into the skin, she jerked her head back and forth, trying to pull whatever she could off the bone.
Ian’s hand opened, and Heather fell back against the door, grasping her neck, desperate to find air.
Ian shoved Ashley off him, and she flew back into her seat, blood running down her chin.
Marcus couldn’t believe what was happening, what he’d just witnessed his girlfriend do. His sweet and gentle Ashley…the look that had come over her face when she jerked her head…the blood. No, this couldn’t be happening. Not this. But dream or not, he held his breath and waited for Ian’s response.
But Ian only placed his hand alongside the other one on the steering wheel, blood dripping onto his jeans.
Everyone stared at him, no idea what to expect next from this intruder driving them down I-81.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. Tears filled his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
They kept staring at him.
The Saab slowed to seventy-five.
Marcus saw something change in Ian’s eyes, some cloudy presence fade away from them. He didn’t know what it was, but he prayed he’d never see it again. Perhaps the ring bouncing down I-81 had taken whatever demon had possessed him along with it, and all of this might finally be over. Though hadn’t they already thought that before?
He sat back in his own seat and tried to relax, to subdue the tremors shaking his hands. He held Ashley close against him, wiping the blood from her face with his sleeve. “Maybe you should let me drive, Ian.”
Ian nodded without argument. He activated the turn signal and pulled over onto the shoulder. He opened the door and stepped out onto the road.
For a second, Marcus thought about locking his door and jumping behind the wheel, taking off and leaving Ian behind. But he couldn’t do that. “Heather,” he said, leaning forward and putting a hand on her shoulder. “Do you want to sit back here with Ash?”
Heather nodded, wiping tears from her eyes. Bruises already covered her neck. She opened the door and got out.
Once everyone was repositioned, Marcus behind the wheel, Ian riding shotgun beside him, and Ashley and Heather in the back seat, they pulled back onto 81. It was late afternoon. The sun was starting to go down, and another angry sky was approaching, riding toward them on the wings of yet another uncertain twilight. The weather person on the radio was comparing the coming storm to the Valentine’s Day Blizzard of 2007.
Twenty-five
He opens his eyes and slowly comes back from the place such psychic exercises leave him. He has no real control over what is said when his residents wish to communicate with other parties, but he is left with a dim recollection of the message and knows that in this instance, as in all others prior, what the demons had said through the Saab’s speakers was in perfect alignment with his own will.
He gets out of the car.
The wind nearly takes his hat, and he has to use a gloved hand to hold it to his head while he searches the shoulder of the road. He saw the ring fly out the passenger window. It has to be here somewhere. Nevertheless, the creeping sensation of loss slowly drips down his spine. Somehow, in some way, he has been outmaneuvered again.
A few cars pass by, and one of them slows, its occupants wondering what the strange man in black is doing walking back and forth along the side of I-81. The man stares at the young couple through his sunglasses, and they speed up, disappearing into the coming storm. He has that effect on people.
Taking his eyes off the road at his feet, he raises them to the endless snow that covers the dead, winter grass. The white terrain leads to the woods’ edge. Could the ring have cleared the shoulder, landing somewhere in the snow? If so, why isn’t he sensing it? Why are the voices silent? He knows that the voices seem to come and go as they please, always have, but their muteness now is maddening. He is too close to his destiny for such games.
His heavy boots thump against the road, crunching snow missed by plows earlier in the day. At first, he couldn’t believe his fortune when the girl simply tossed Solomon’s ring straight out the window and onto I-81. And it was strange indeed that the relic which first appeared in ancient Israel was now rolling down some frozen interstate in modern New York. The power, the thing that the ring is believed to unlock—though that is not his concern—is of such importance, such meaning on the world stage, that it seems to him almost comical that it should be here. Forsaken, discarded as something common, lying in the snow like a piece of trash… Though the four people clearly have no idea what the artifact is, one of them had put it on and had acquired a sense of its mystery, of its power. Why he had then chosen to depart with it is something that fascinates him, for who can resist such power once connected to it, once tasting it? It has to be, must be, the confirmation he seeks from the silence, that his spiritual helpers are at work behind the scenes, influencing events on this plane and still helping him bring about the fulfillment of his destiny—of theirs.
That was what he had believed the very second he saw the fading sunlight shining off the flying bronze band, but now, as he continues searching the surface of the snow for some sign of the ring’s resting place, such hope is struggling to remain alive. He realizes that while he saw the ring flying through the air, he never actually saw where it landed.
Rage begins to rumble through his body. It spreads throughout him like a slithering snake, wrapping itself around his heart and soul, both of which have been damned for quite some time now. Have they deceived him? The ring is not here, and soon the Brotherhood will be coming for him. He is running out of time. Something is working against him. Either his own have betrayed him or God has decided to step into the game, employing His Lookers to finally take up their swords. Neither possibility shines hope onto his mission. His mission. Yes, it is certainly his, but until now he had believed that it was also theirs. Now he cannot be certain. Regardless, he will have the ring. If the demons have betrayed him, then he will wear it and force all of hell into submission. They will bow before him and execute his will, for he is the Crest of Dragons, the world’s reckoning.
He abandons the road and the snow beyond, knowing better than to waste any more time looking for what isn’t there. As he slips behind the wheel, about to close the door, a police car comes from the opposite direction with its lights flashing. Suddenly, it breaks and turns hard, crossing over the median. It pulls up behind him.
Jonathan smiles as the Presence within begins to squirm with excitement. Ah, there you are… They haven’t left him, after all.
The state trooper walks cautiously toward the Camaro, hand resting ready on the butt of his pistol. He goes around to the passenger side, and it’s obvious that he’s wary of the situation.
Jonathan flexes hi
s hand, the leather glove squeaking on the steering wheel. There must’ve been a survivor from the accident who reported his black chariot to the authorities.
“Keep your hands on the steering wheel,” the cop says. His gun is out of the holster as soon as he sees the hat, sunglasses, overcoat. He begins inspecting the front of the car for damage that might implicate involvement in the hit and run. He is standing beside the passenger door, gun held low in two hands, his eyes flashing over the hood.
The passenger side door swings open, striking the officer and sending him sprawling. Startled—the driver hadn’t even removed his hands from the steering wheel—the cop scrambles back to his feet, confusion and pain screwed to his face. The driver smiles at him.
Invisible hands violently snatch the cop backward and hurl him into the snow. He goes screaming, arms and legs flailing, into the woods, the Presence dragging him to some unfortunate end.
“I am the Crest of Dragons,” Jonathan says. The passenger door shuts. He starts the engine. His companions are here, and surely they still wish him to have the ring. He sighs in relief once more, putting to rest his doubts. At least for now. He must continue to trust, even if not understanding this new tug-of-war aspect of their relationship.
He pulls onto the road and tries to reestablish a link with the legendary artifact. He knows the stories. That Michael the archangel gave the ring to Solomon as a means of controlling demons. But he also knows the other tradition, of there being two rings, one created from the Urim and the other from the Thummim. When joined with two special scrolls fashioned by Jeremiah the Prophet (one of which he knows to have been found, the famous Copper Scroll), the combination is meant to unlock Israel’s glory. It’s this latter tradition that has the world scrambling for Solomon’s rings and the scrolls, the Brotherhood and all its affiliates desiring to use the rings in some grand deception that will grant them rule over the Middle East and the world. But he doesn’t care about that. He wants the archangel’s ring for what it was originally intended for…the control of demons. His first union with the ring had granted him partial power over the underworld, and once it was taken from him, some of hell’s agents had chosen to remain within, taking up permanent residence. And those demons offered a different mission than that of the Templars who first discovered the ring below the Temple Mount, their Illuminati descendants, or the Illuminated Freemasonry that took them in. No, he doesn’t care about their One World agenda or their antichrist’s Mark of the Beast. The Theosophical Society, the Masonic Christ, their blessed Occult… He will destroy it all with the rest of the world. For he has been chosen by the powers and principalities to execute Lucifer’s true plan—one hidden from even the most prominent members of the Order. And that is his destiny.
****
Jacob nervously circles the room, his black, leather boots clicking against the stone beneath them. Heavy snowflakes fall past the window, and what is left of the day casts shadows of meteors that drift lazily across the floor at his feet.
“He should have it by now,” he mumbles, fingers of one hand absentmindedly moving to his chin. He stares off into the unpleasant ramifications the statement suggests.
The other, shorter man says nothing.
“He has no intention of returning it once he has it.”
Stephen looks up to his superior, whose frame is silhouetted against the window. “Of course he doesn’t. He wants to destroy us for betraying him.”
“He betrayed us. He betrayed his oath,” Jacob snaps.
“We sent assassins to kill him after welcoming him back with promises of forgiveness.”
He shakes his head. “There was no way he could remain with us. In his zeal to fulfill his so-called destiny, he would’ve destroyed all we’ve worked for over the millennia.”
“He still might.”
“Which is why he must finally be eliminated. There is no other alternative.”
“Did you ever even stop to consider what might happen this time?”
Jacob stops. He is tall and thin, bat-like in his black attire, and the gaze he sweeps over the room would send any Van Helsing running for carts of garlic. “The Judgment stone has been in our possession for nearly nine hundred years, entrusted to us. If it disappears again, it could be the end.”
Awkwardly, Stephen shifts his bright blue eyes away from the robed speaker. “Some believe that, as before, the Master would reveal to us the ring’s location if ever it were to become lost. He is certainly capable of it. Perhaps we should have trusted him.”
“You sound like those anti-Zionist Jews. You think we should sit back and do nothing and then call it faith?”
Stephen shrugs. “Trust in their God makes them incapable of being used like the puppets all the others are.”
“Is that what you think we are? Puppets?”
“I think we’re giving Jonathan another chance to bring everything down.”
“The Master wouldn’t let that happen.”
“Because he is the true puppeteer?”
Jacob steps back in front of the window, his shadow striking the floor and blotting out the moving shapes. “Don’t complicate the situation with matters of theology.”
“Why?”
He looks out the window.
Stephen presses on. “Because we might begin to question whether or not we are in his will? That, perhaps, it is Jonathan that is attempting to carry out the Master’s true intentions?”
“Be careful, Stephen,” Jacob warns, daggers piercing from his eyes.
Stephen begins to toy with the ring on his finger. “You know the prophecies written in the Book. We are bringing them to pass. We are setting the stage for its ultimate fulfillment. How can we be certain that, at the very last moment, we will be able to twist the story’s ending into our favor?”
“His favor.”
“We are deceiving the world, even the church, into supporting our end. But our end, in the end, is only God’s end. In the end, we are as much of a puppet as the people we use to enforce our Master’s will.”
The man glares at Stephen. “I, for this one time, will forget such blasphemy.”
“Where were the demons when Joab was stealing the ring right out from under us? Where was their alarm when he turned into an imposter, converting to the Light? Surely, the demons knew that one of their own had been turned! Why haven’t they been able to show us who helped him?”
“Enough!”
Stephen takes a deep breath and stares down at his feet with fingers interlocked, elbows resting on his knees. “All I’m doing is voicing my concern. I don’t understand. If Lucifer wants the formula used and our power established in Jerusalem, why is he working against himself through Jonathan? Why are the demons granting him the power to pursue and obtain that which we cannot, only to tempt him with the destruction of all the Master has worked to achieve over the ages?” He scratches at the ink-stained spot of skin just below the collar of his shirt and whispers, “I just can’t reconcile it in my mind. If he wants us to have it, then we should have it by now.”
The man changes the subject. “Where is Jonathan now?”
“Traveling south down Interstate 81.” He stands, his knees groaning with snaps and pops in the cold air. “It appears that someone has the ring in their possession and that Jonathan is chasing after them, leaving a trail of death in his wake.”
Jacob’s disdain for Stephen’s doubt begins to fade under this news. “Go on.”
“A rental car from Adirondack Regional Airport was found crashed in the mountains. The survivors apparently took off into the woods. In searching for them, authorities discovered the corpse of a man shot in the head. His missing vehicle was later discovered at a woman’s house in Syracuse. The woman was hanging by her own entrails from a tree in the backyard. Now her car is missing, and there’s an APB out for the make and model.” He paused. “The night before last, the owner of a diner in Watertown, right off 81, was fixed to the ceiling and gutted like a fish. Yesterday morning, the
same vehicle that belonged to the dead man found in the woods shows up at the diner. The police officer said the man’s vehicle, a Range Rover, was occupied by four people. Two men and two women.”
“The rental car…”
“Joab must have hidden the ring in the car before entering the mall. When the car was taken back to the rental agency, the ring was overlooked.”
Jacob runs his fingers through his dark beard, eyes on fire with plotting. The whole hanging by the entrails bit is the work of Jonathan for sure. “He’s arriving at the ring’s location too late.”
Stephen nods. “For whatever reason, he hasn’t been able to acquire it from them. These people are running away from him, Jacob, and managing to stay one step ahead of him. It’s only a matter of time now before we can apprehend them. We don’t need Jonathan anymore.”
Jacob rehearses what the information means. “The people leave the rental car in the mountains, take the man’s Rover to Syracuse, and now they’re in the woman’s—”
“2012 Saab 9-5.”
He paces as the sun continues to sink behind him. “These people that have the ring, they can’t know what it is.”
“It’s possible that one of them, if not all, has put it on.”
His eyes dart to Stephen’s. They are both well aware of the stories. And though there is no proof of these tales, no records documenting the truth of such claims, there is no doubting them. They both know enough, have seen enough to believe. Stories of ring-wearers over the centuries obtaining supernatural abilities from the ring only echo Solomon’s account, Jonathan’s own relationship with the ring similar to the Order’s legend of Hugues de Payens and what had transpired after the Templars found the ring buried beneath the Temple Mount. But there are also the rarer stories of the ring’s influence on its periphery, even when not being worn. Random mischief acted out by the demons…tornadoes, earthquakes… If only some of these accounts are rooted in truth, then the ring just being out there could bring unpredictable results to the world around it.
The Demon Signet Page 19