Whatever that is, is what’s really holding her here. Not those restraints. How is this possible?
Caitlin replaced the dark curtain, and the dimness returned. He nodded, satisfied, then returned to the doorway; Francis buzzed him back in.
“Have a great day, everyone!” called Caitlin as he marched toward the complex’s exit.
Francis wiped the sudden outbreak of sweat from his brow.
What the hell is going on here?
~~~
“This is a most unusual request, young Buckland.” The voice of Sky-King cut through the stale air of the cell like a sharp knife.
“I know.” Sam stood, addressing the miniscule form of the genie floating over the circles on his hands. “I just don’t have any other options; I’m trapped here otherwise. Can you help me?”
Sky-King seemed to consider this, rubbing what passed for his hands together as vapor steamed from his eyes, nose, and ears. Sam interjected, “And if you’re worried about payment, I promise that I will find something to repay you with, but I obviously don’t have anything right now.”
Sky-King laughed, ice crystallizing on the prison bars. “Young Keeper, you amuse me. I am the Sky-King, Prince and Heir to the Dominion of Vapors; I cannot be bribed! Your first gift was an act of respect, and I do not expect another. Instead, my friend, allow me to repay your respect with my own.” The genie floated over to a nearby wall outlet, out of the cell. Sam moved to the bars to watch, snatching his hand away from the icy metal.
“Hey, guard! Turn that A/C off, willya?” called a prisoner in a neighboring cell.
The genie seemed to funnel himself, transforming into something similar to a tornado, channeling his essence into the wall socket and disappearing into it. Electric sparks flew from the plug as he vanished.
A minute passed. Then two. What is he doing? He trusted the genie, although he also recognized that the djinn’s idea of helping may not exactly coincide with what he himself would have done in the same situation. Nevertheless…
The outlet exploded in a shower of light and Sky-King reappeared, thunderclaps of laughter echoing off the prison walls. “Your enemies are ill-prepared, Samuel Buckland.” Snowflakes fell from his lips. “Your records were easily found; I was able to overload the machine they kept them in as well as destroy the paper copies.”
“Had they sent the information on? To the FBI, or anyone?”
The genie cocked his head, looking at Sam. “I do not believe so; one of the guards exclaimed that he had ‘just been about to send this shit upstream’ after the machine was destroyed. Without that information, I think that it will be difficult for them to send you to the tribunals for judgment.”
Sam started to laugh, but then he remembered something. “Wait…the cops are still going to remember who I am, the ones who arrested me. What can we do about that?”
“Solomon used many spirits in his spells, young Keeper, as have his heirs since then.” He spread his hands. “Do not interfere with God’s plan. Be wise. These are your commandments, as they have been for every Keeper before you. Follow those commandments and your actions will be blessed by God.” Sky-King bowed in mid-air to Sam, who bowed back.
“Again I bid you fare-well, Keeper. Try not to get imprisoned again, for your enemy has had this time to prepare. I cannot stay; my dominion calls to me, commands me to move onward. Goodbye, Samuel Buckland.”
“Goodbye, Sky-King. And fly safe.”
Another crack of thunder as the genie disappeared into the winds he sailed. Sam smiled for just a moment, then set to work; Sky-King had told him that there were many spirits that he could call. Maybe one could do what he needed…maybe one could help. He stared at his hands.
The images shifted, changed…and settled in gibberish. Damn it. I must need a clearer image. Make a decision.
All right then…a demon. A demon…of sloth. That should do it.
As his attention refocused on his hands he saw that the sigils had already prepared themselves. He read the annotations as best he could; demons of sloth were powerful, but ill-used to exerting that power. As long as one did not anger them, they did not tend to fight the summoner too strongly.
Sam looked around for an appropriate space; the demon would take a physical form, and if the circle was too small, he would be unable to bind it. Ah!
The bed. Perfect.
Squeezing out the ketchup packets from his uneaten meal, he drew the symbols surrounding the bed, then stepped back.
“Argol, I conjure you from your sleep. Break from your rest to do the will of Solomon’s heir, then return to your slumber. Argol, I conjure you…” he chanted. As he began the second verse, the lights began to flicker, and a great sense of lassitude began to creep into Sam’s mind. He shook his head; the demon was coming, and if he fell asleep during the summons…
After the fourth chant, a dark cloud began coalescing over the bedframe, but Sam had to bite his tongue to keep from drifting into dreamland.
After the sixth, Sam felt like he had been on a 36-hour roadtrip sans coffee or Monsters.
After the seventh, the fatigue suddenly washed off of him and imploded into the middle of the diagram, over the bed. The demon stretched and yawned, shaking the remnants of smoke off of its claws and dull grey skin. It yawned, showing five or six rows of cavernous, tooth-lined mouths, then blinked its eight eyes open onto Sam.
“Why do you call me from my bed, Keeper of the Keys?” Its voice was that of a half-sleeping child. “Speak your command, and be quick so I may rest again.”
Sam shook the last of the sleepiness off and stood before the demon. “When the police come down here to interrogate me about what the destroyed records said, I need you to make them not care about doing their jobs, at least for the day. Make it so that it’s too much trouble for them to question me, and they might as well let me go. Do you understand?”
The red pupils in the demon’s eyes expanded, contracted. “Do I have to move?”
Sam almost laughed. “No, you may stay there until you do as I have asked, then you may leave.”
“Very well.” The demon waved its clawed hands at Sam; it was only now that the young man saw that the demon’s hands were on backwards, fingers bending the wrong way as they curled. Sam shuddered. Footsteps sounded on the stairwell.
“Samuel Buckland?” The officer who had arrested him was coming in, flanked by two others, another man and a woman.
“Over here!” Sam grasped the bars and nodded toward the demon, who only yawned again. “What is it?”
The police stepped up to the door of the cell, one of them inserting the key and turning it. “Keep your hands where I can see them, if you please, sir.” The door slid open. “We’ve had a…malfunction with some of our records equipment, and we need to retake the official statement you made earlier; we’re also going to have to recontact the gentleman who charged you…Caitlin, I think his name was. Come along, then.”
“Of course.” Sam took a step, then, hissing, he turned his face to the demon. “Now!”
The demon stirred a bit, blinked its eyes open again, then focused on the police officers, its eight red eyes burning within its head as it whispered, its words unintelligible to Sam.
“You know what?” The officer shook his head and let go of the keys. “None of this shit matters, man; no matter what I do, they’re just letting you guys back out on the streets with a slap on the wrist and a stern talking-to. What’s the point of even trying anymore?” He slumped against the wall.
“I know what you mean, mon ami,” said one of the others, sitting down and putting his head in his hands. “Last week I get home from a car chase, my heart’s all pounding, and then my wife tells me she’s leaving me because I’m not ambitious enough. What the hell! I joined the force because I wanted to make a difference, you know, do something worth doing. Guess I was wrong.”
The third cop’s knees buckled; she tried to stay on her feet, her eyes meeting Sam’s, something akin to realiza
tion in her face. “Y…you…”
Then she was out, snoring upon the floor.
“Vanessa’s got the right idea, you know,” said the first cop. “We’re just wasting our time here, anyway…there’s nothing worth waking up for.” Sam started to tiptoe out of the cell, trying to avoid their notice. It was easy; the two conscious cops didn’t seem to want to notice him.
As he reached the end of the hallway, though, he heard a gunshot.
“Sorry to ask, Frank,” said the voice of the first cop, but slurred, like something was wrong with his mouth. “My aim’s a little off. Would you mind? I’ll do you; it’s hard to do m’self.”
“Sure, Trev.”
Bam. Bam. Simultaneous shots.
Cops went running by Sam, none taking any notice of him. Tears filled his eyes as he hurried out of the station.
Fucking demons. The wind outside was harsh, wiping the moisture from his face before it could stick. He had known, he had been warned, the book had told him that they were cagey, that they would only follow your literal instructions. Why hadn’t he been more careful?
Lesson learned, bastards. He wouldn’t forget that one anytime soon…nor would he forget what this power could do. Two good cops, dead…and he, Samuel Buckland, had caused it.
For the first time, he was a bit afraid of his newfound power.
Good. I should be afraid of it; fear of fire teaches one respect for the flames.
He set his face and ran. Because the flames can come back and burn your ass if you’re not careful.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Gregory Caitlin sipped more of his wine, staring across the table at his lovely wife, Susan. He had surprised her with this dinner date the day after what he would always term “The Crisis.”
The two of them had spent all night talking about it. The breaches of trust on her part. The sudden obsessiveness and distance on his. How he had almost forgotten why he was doing this, running for office, working so hard on his company.
And then, of course, the hugging, the make-up loving, remembering what it had been like when they had been younger, before they were married.
So Gregory had wanted to treat her like he had back in those days, show her that he hadn’t forgotten the wonderful woman she had been then, and that he still thought she was that woman now, only better.
“Your numbers are looking great, honey.” Susan glanced at her iPhone. “Latest poll has you with 34%; political pundits are going crazy. ‘He always knows the exact things to say, the exact moves to make,’ they say.” She beamed a great big smile at him. “It’s about time someone worthwhile got voted in.”
“Suze.” Gregory reached across the table to remove the phone from her hand and clasp it in his, “I didn’t come here to talk about work; I came to spend time with you. It’s something I haven’t been doing enough of lately, and…” A buzzing came from Gregory’s pocket.
“Liar.” Susan favored her husband with a small smile. “Go ahead; I’ll just head to the ladies’ room. Be back soon!” Susan’s blue dress caught the lights as she stood and headed toward the restrooms. She turned on her way and blew Gregory a kiss.
Grinning, Gregory glanced down at his phone. The number was blocked, which made him smile more; either it was someone he didn’t care about, and he could hang up, or it was Francis down at the research division with some new data for him.
“Caitlin.”
The waiter who came to clear some of their dishes was unable to explain to Susan what happened; he saw Gregory’s face fall, then his brows knit together, then the man just screamed into his phone, screamed unintelligible obscenities at whoever was on the other end. His cheeks were red as he knocked glasses and plates onto the floor, and before the manager or anyone else had the chance to ask him to leave, Gregory Caitlin stormed out of the building, the eyes and ears of the other customers still tracking him.
~~~
Sam parked the rental Honda in the driveway of a small, slate-colored, two-story house with a very sad, overgrown lawn. A pink flamingo stood, but off-kilter, like someone had kicked it in a fit of spite and no one had ever reoriented it.
Getting out of the car forced a stretch in the man who had written his name as “Solomon Smith” when he had paid cash for his rental. He had known that Caitlin would probably try to track him again as soon as he found out about Sam’s prison break, so he had done what he could to make things a bit more difficult for him. The air smelled metallic here, like rust, like copper. Sam glanced around the yard, saw an oxidized tricycle, pipes strewn about, sticking up through the grass like pikes.
What is up with this guy? He paused for a moment, taking in the surroundings, before he began to step forward on the path. He had taken two steps when the flamingo next to him exploded. The roar of the shotgun blast forced him to cover his ears in surprise and shock.
“Get the fuck off my property!” The voice sounded like it was coming from an upstairs window. Sam looked up at the second floor, but saw no one.
“Mr. Birch?” called Sam, holding his hands high and trying his best to look nonthreatening. “I’m just here about a paper that you were interviewed for a few years ago? By a Doctor Stone?”
Sam heard the cock of the shotgun. “What about it?”
“Um…well, I read it and I was really interested about your ideas on the true language of the Angels.” Sam winced. God, that sounds lame. He took stock of positions he could dive to if the shotgun poked its head out of one of those windows; a broken metal fountain was closest, but his best bet might be to jump back toward the car. “Could we just talk? I’m not here to cause trouble.”
“Fat chance, sonny boy.” The voice had moved, shifted to another window. “Someone else came asking about that, and I talked to him…next thing I know, I’ve got phone calls from all over, asking me about where I am, and will I come down to see their ‘specialists’, and that people are after me and I should meet with some agents for ‘special protection.’ Fuck that.” Despite himself, Sam couldn’t stop a bemused smile as the rant went on. “I’ve got second amendment rights, son; the right to bear arms, and if anyone thinks that they’re going to have their government spooks come and take me away just because I’ve been spoken to by angels, well, they’re going to have to do it with a couple slugs in their chest.”
Sam suppressed a laugh. “Um…Mr. Birch? I’m not with the government and I’m not someone who wants to laugh at you…and, well…I’m certainly not someone who wants to get shot.” There was no immediate response. “I just need your help. You were right, Mr. Birch; you were right about everything, and the angels are in trouble.”
Finally, a salt-and-pepper head peeked itself out; the face underneath it was well-groomed, lined, and had the added thickness that often comes with age. The dark brown eyes blinked a few times behind their glasses.
The shotgun was still in his hands.
“Who did you say you were, again, son?”
Sam smiled. “My name is Sam Buckland.”
“And what is it that you wanted, Mr. Buckland?”
“I just need to ask you some questions. You see, I’ve spoken to the angels too.”
~~~
“Gabriel? Really? The bastard’s got Gabriel?” Kurtis Birch handed a bottled beer to Sam and cracked another open for himself. Sam glanced at the bottle but didn’t recognize the brand, a blue shield logo labeled “Weihenstephan,” then nodded as Kurtis sipped from his drink.
“Yeah. It’s crazy, I know, but she’s spoken to me, in a…vision?” Sam laughed and opened his own beer. “You know, a month ago, I would have laughed in your face if you had told me that you had talked to the angels.”
“Really?”
“Well…maybe not. I would have wanted to, though. I thought that people who believed in God were ‘weak,’ looking for some kind of Father-figure to justify all the horrors of the world, and denying that humans were capable of doing true good on our own, without a God’s intervention.” He shook his head, tears
beginning to sting his eyes as he remembered his last words to his mother.
“Believe it or not, I believed the same thing.” Sam’s head jerked back upright.
“Wait. Weren’t you a professor of angelology? Like Dr. Stone?”
“Never got the doctorate, but I did a few tours. Lectures. Spoke at the Vatican.” Kurtis smiled, sitting back in his rocking chair, pink bunny slippers on the ottoman. “That was fun; John Paul II was the Pope at the time. Good man. Always wanted to know how much of it he bought into, you know?”
“You’re telling me you didn’t? At all?”
Kurtis shook his head. “Nope. I was in it for the money, son…well, the money and the girls.” He smiled at Sam, but it was a regretful smile, a smile mourning the man he had once been. “See, research is easy, and it’s fun and all…but no one can prove or disprove anything about the angels, right? So, as long as you’re doing work and publishing papers, you get paid, you get grants, you get lodging. Takes work, sure, lots of work…but you can’t really be wrong, and so there’s very little risk in it. First met Martha on one of my lectures, about twenty years ago.” His eyes glazed as they began visualizing Memory Lane, leaving Sam and the living room behind. “She came right up to me afterwards and started asking all sorts of questions, about my sources, my inspiration. One look in her eyes and I could tell that she really believed it, and that she thought I did too. I almost said something,” he continued, shaking himself out of his reverie, “but her earnestness was compelling, and I felt myself almost believing right along with her.”
Kurtis glanced back up at Sam. “Almost.”
Sam’s eyes were bright as he listened. “What changed things? What made you believe?”
Kurtis laughed and took another swig of his Bavarian brew. “Well, like I said, the angels spoke to me. Or spoke at me, or around me…” His voice turned wistful, a bit confused, as he continued. “Never figured out why they wanted to talk to me, you know, given that I hadn’t believed in them up until then, had been using their names and such for my own gain. Or even if it was meant for me to hear at all, maybe just an accident.” He nodded to Sam. “You know what I mean?”
Chains of Prophecy: A Tale of Mythic Discovery Page 11