The Seal of Solomon (Alfred Kropp #2)(41)

“What is that, anyway?” I asked.

“The Ars Goetia . . . The Howling Art.”

“What kind of art howls?”

“The title refers to the method with which the conjurer controls the Fallen. Said to be written by King Solomon himself, The Ars Goetia contains descriptions of the seventy-two lords, their symbols and powers, and the incantations to bring them forth from the Holy Vessel and control them. The conjurer is instructed to ‘howl’ the incantations, hence the name.”

“So it’s kind of a manual for fighting demons?”

He winced. “No, it is a guide for using them to the master’s purpose. The Great Seal is useless unless the wearer speaks the incantations as written by Solomon, word for word, with no variation.”

“I get it. That’s why the demons ignored me even though I was wearing the ring. I didn’t know the spells.”

He grimaced again. “I prefer not to call them demons. It demeans their nature.”

“But isn’t that what they are?”

“We should pity more than fear them, Alfred. They were angels once.”

“Yeah, but didn’t you say they rebelled against God? They got what they deserved.”

“Perhaps.” He sighed. “Yet do we not all hope and pray that we ourselves escape what we truly deserve? None have fallen as far or as irrevocably as the outcasts of heaven. Did you not find them beautiful?”

“Well, yes and no. They sure didn’t look like I thought demons or, um, outcasts, would look. But they were . . . it was . . .” I searched for the right words. “Almost like looking too long at the sun.” But that really didn’t come close to describing them. They were beautiful, but their beauty was wrapped in terror and despair, kind of like that sick feeling in your gut when the prettiest girl in school finally notices you . . . but that really didn’t describe it either. A pretty girl doesn’t push you to the point of tearing your own eyes out.

“Their essence—the truth of what they are—has not changed since their creation, Alfred. How could it? No matter how far they have fallen, they are the first fruits of the divine imagination. They have gazed upon the very face of God, the face they will see no more for all eternity—and so I pity them.” Tears welled in his eyes. “Even as I envy them for having seen it.”

34

We landed in Chicago at what looked like an old military base. The flight had lasted about fifty minutes, so I figured at four thousand miles per hour we had traveled maybe three thousand miles. That meant OIPEP headquarters probably wasn’t in North America. Antarctica seemed too far away, so maybe it was somewhere in the Arctic Circle, though I didn’t see any polar bears or walrus or Eskimos, which I figured were plentiful in the Arctic.

A sheet of gray clouds hung low over us, moving rapidly as if a giant unseen hand was pulling it westward. The absence of the sun seemed to bleed all the color from the world; the grass was the same dull gray color as the hangars. I heard thunder rolling deep in the cloud cover.

“The whole world is covered?” I asked Op Nine as we walked toward a blue Ford Taurus parked by one of the hangars.

“Yes.”

He popped the trunk and unzipped a large canvas bag that sat inside. Op Nine took a quick inventory as I looked over his shoulder. The bag contained maps, a couple of wallets, two semiautomatic handguns, socks, underwear, some shirts and pants, a laptop computer, two other pistols that looked like flare guns, the Ars Goetia, and a roll of toilet paper.

“Toilet paper?” I asked.

“One never knows.”

He stuck one of the semiautomatics behind his back. Then he took the flare gun and ejected the clip from the handle to check the bullets. The bullets had a slightly flared head; they looked like a miniature version of the bullets for the 3XDs.

“What is that?” I asked.

“My life’s work.”

He stuck this pistol into some hidden pocket in the lining of his parka, and then turned to me, holding one of each type of gun in either hand.

I would have preferred my sword, the blade of the Last Knight Bennacio, but that was back in Knoxville and I didn’t figure we had the time to get it, although the X-30 could probably get us there in about ten minutes.

He tossed the weapons back into the bag, slammed the trunk closed, and we climbed into the Taurus. He pulled down the visor and the keys fell into his lap.

“Not exactly James Bond,” I said, looking around the ratty interior. The seats were stained, the floorboards crusted with mud, the lining on the roof coming off in one spot and hanging down.

“This is a covert operation,” he reminded me.

“Where’s the button to convert it into a submarine?”

“You’ve seen too many movies, Alfred.”

“You’re right. I’ll try to stay grounded in the real world of demons zipping around Mount Everest plotting the end of human existence.”

He turned off the access road onto a two-lane highway, then jumped on the interstate. Directly ahead I could see the Chicago skyline on the shores of Lake Michigan.

“So why do we think Mike might be in Chicago?” I asked. “I mean, I figured he was from here; he always wears that Cubs cap and he mentioned the Natural History Museum, but if I was going to hide somewhere, I wouldn’t go to the most obvious place people would look.”