The Seal of Solomon (Alfred Kropp #2)(68)

He looked at me then, the first he had looked at me since he began his story.

“And I did that which must be done to preserve the mission.” I cleared my throat. “It still doesn’t add up. Thirty days to get you out and you had rations for only two weeks. How did you . . . ?”

I waited for an answer, but I already knew the answer and it struck me suddenly how cruel I was being, asking him to give it.

“So you see, Alfred, sometimes it is a good thing to be a Section Nine operative. To have no name and no past and no . . . barriers. It is codified absolution. Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I read the section over and over, like a dying man reads the Scriptures to quell his terror. But the comfort it gives is fleeting. For whatever remained of Father Sam before Abkhazia died in the abyss called Krubera.”

54

He was staring at the juncture where the tunnel of smoke met the rings of fire.

“Samuel,” I said. “Time’s up. We have to go.”

“I can’t go with you, Alfred,” he said.

“What do you mean you can’t go with me?”

He turned to me and tears were in his eyes. “You spoke of that place—the point between desperation and despair. I know that place well, Alfred. And we have been there, you and I, since the Seal was lost.”

“This isn’t you,” I said. “It’s them. Don’t let them do this to you, Samuel. I need you. I don’t think I can do this without you.”

“We have been fools, Alfred. It was over the moment Paimon obtained the ring. It is Krubera repeating itself, except this time there is no hope of rescue. There is no hope at all.”

He leaned in and whispered, “Do you know why they hate us so much, Alfred? Because of hope. They have none, and so they hate us for it. But I think they hate you most of all, for the power of heaven itself courses through your veins. Their hatred of you is only exceeded by their fear. It was fear that stayed their hand in Evanston, fear of what might be released should they kill you.”

He fumbled in his pocket and brought out the same metal flask he had used in the desert, before our assault on the demon hordes. He unscrewed the top and shook some of the water onto his trembling fingers. His voice was shaking too, as he traced the sign of the cross on my forehead.

“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. God bless and keep you, Alfred Kropp, last son of Lancelot, Master of the Holy Sword, favored of Saint Michael the Archangel, Prince of Light, God’s champion who hurled the outcasts from heaven—may he guard and bring you safely through this trial.”

Then he made the sign again in the air.

“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.” He placed his hands on my shoulders. “Go now, Alfred. And may God go with you.”

I had trouble forming the words, my teeth—the teeth I still had left in my head—were chattering so much. “I’d rather you did.”

“I have come as far as I can go.”

“Me too,” I said. “But I’ve got to go farther. I’ve reached the end of hope too, Samuel, but I still gotta go farther because stopping here means I really am dead. I’ve been hugged by demons, but I’ve been hugged by angels, too, and that’s why I’m going on. You can stay—but I’m going on.”

I tried to think of something else to say, like the perfect words existed that would change his mind and, if I could only think of them, he would come.

There wasn’t anything he could do if he went, but at least I wouldn’t be alone. More terrifying than the thought of facing them was the thought of facing them alone.

I punched the button and my door opened. I stepped out and pulled the black sword from behind the seat. I slipped it between my belt and pants.

“Will you wait for me at least?” I asked. He didn’t say anything.

“Good-bye, Samuel,” I said.

I stepped away from the car, the door rotated with a soft whine, and the sound of it snapping closed seemed very loud.

I walked toward the circle of light, my breath swirling around my head in the frigid air, and for some reason I felt twenty pounds heavier, as if they had done something to mess with gravity. Above me lightning flickered silently behind the opaque screen of fog, sometimes bright enough to cast a shadow of my shuffling self onto the frozen pavement that glistened with ice particles. I could barely lift my feet by that point.

I didn’t look back. I didn’t have the strength to turn my head. My mouth hung open a little as I gasped for air. The odor rising from my body was incredible. It made my eyes water. I had thought it was the smell of rotting fruit, but I knew now it was the stench of death.

Through my tears I saw glimmering shapes gathered around a huge hole in the earth, a black pit that the light above seemed to flow into, like water being sucked down a drain.

I had reached the devil’s door.

55

My mind started to cloud with terror, that same paralyzing fear that I felt in the desert, beneath the tarp with Ashley, only this time there was no hand to grasp. I could barely move my legs by this point and every breath hurt.

“Saint Michael protect me,” I blubbered around my broken teeth. My voice sounded muffled in my own ears. “Saint Michael protect . . .”

One of the glowing shapes standing before the pit moved forward, its crown shooting dazzling beams of blue and red and green light. I stopped as it approached, mostly because I didn’t have another step in me.