The Seal of Solomon (Alfred Kropp #2)(70)

I lost my grip on Paimon, and it scrambled up my body like a huge spider. Fingers colder than ice wrapped themselves around my throat, squeezing until black stars bloomed and multiplied before my eyes. My gut heaved and my shoulders jerked as I fought to breathe.

I hooked two fingers in the juncture between the thumb and forefinger and yanked with every bit of strength I had left. The hand tore free, and I felt the nails rake long gashes in my neck.

My right arm was shaking uncontrollably with fatigue as I grabbed the ring, pushing the twisting hand against my stomach with my left forearm, holding it still for the split second I needed—and a split second was all I needed—to rip the Great Seal off the finger.

I flung my left arm away from my body and the demon’s hand shot straight up, disappearing into the churning mass of the thunderhead.

9,456 FEET

I had reached the heart of the storm. Updrafts flipped and spun me, slowing my descent slightly, as rain and quarter-sized hail pelted me from every direction.

I pushed the ring onto my left index finger.

Then I howled, competing against the howling wind, wondering if it mattered if the demon king could hear me, “I do conjure thee, O thou Spirit Paimon, by all the most glorious and—” And then I went blank, like I knew the whole time I would. I yanked the page containing the Words of Constraint from my pocket, because any rational person will tell you how easy it is to read as you plummet through a thunderstorm, your body pummeled by hurricane-force winds, the utter darkness punctuated by blinding flashes of lightning. It didn’t matter anyway because the wind and hail shredded the paper in seconds, before I could even unfold it completely and bring it close enough to my face to read.

I was screwed. I would hit the ground at five hundred miles per hour and my body would disintegrate on impact, like a watermelon dropped from a skyscraper, and they would be finding pieces of me from Maine to Idaho. Paimon would get the ring and the war would be over. Everything would be consumed, all because I let my hatred of Mike Arnold get the best of me.

I crossed my arms over my chest and rolled so now I was falling facedown. I spread my arms and legs, knees slightly bent, the way I’d seen skydivers do, figuring this might slow me down. I had no idea if it did because I had no idea why skydivers fell this way; it might have nothing to do with their rate of descent. Maybe they just enjoyed the thrill of seeing the ground rushing up to meet them at 250 feet per second.

Saint Michael. Saint Michael, protect.

Wide shafts of light stabbed through the swirling rain and hail. I could hear demons above, screaming toward me at speeds faster than thought, and when they caught me, they would tear me to pieces.

5,134 FEET

I closed my eyes. I wasn’t afraid anymore. That’s the surprising thing. I wasn’t afraid at all. And I wasn’t cold either. Maybe I had passed out of the clouds too, because I didn’t feel the sting of the rain or the bite of the hail. All I felt was warm and empty. It wouldn’t hurt. You hit the earth at the speed I was falling and you don’t feel a thing.

I could feel the heat of the demons against the back of my neck. I whispered, “I do conjure thee . . .” before trailing off because I couldn’t even remember the demon’s name at that point, and nothing seemed to matter much anyway.

Op Nine had said it was over the moment Paimon got the ring, but for me it was over years ago. And they knew that. It was over the day my mother died. That’s why Paimon had called me carcass. Something died in me when she died.

They have seen your secret face, the face you hide from everyone, even from yourself. That was my secret face, twelve years old, scared of out my mind at the thought of losing my mom, of being alone. Scared of death. The demons saw that and gave back to me what I feared the most. My secret face was the face of a rotting corpse.

Saint Michael.

Protect.

3,789 FEET

A gentle glow appeared in the darkness behind my eyelids, and I felt a familiar comforting presence, something I had felt before in a dream, and I heard a voice calling me “beloved.” Suddenly, all the fear and panic whooshed out of me, and into the hollowness left behind poured a light so pure and bright, no shadow could exist in it, and there was someone with me, though I couldn’t see a face, but I could feel arms around me as it spun and fell with me.

Speak, my beloved, and I will give thee words.

My mouth came open and there was no sound—no crashing of thunder, no rush of wind, nothing but my own voice roaring like a freight train.

“I do conjure thee, O thou Spirit Paimon, by all the most glorious and efficacious names of the Most Great and Incomprehensible Lord God of Hosts, that thou comest quickly and without delay . . .”

The words poured out of me as if I’d spoken them every day of my life.

“I conjure and constrain thee, O thou Spirit Paimon . . . by these seven great names wherewith Solomon the Wise bound thee and thy companions in a Vessel of Brass.”

The arms released me, the white light faded. I was through the clouds and the earth burned below me while the fire roared above me. The demons were closing in, but I was as calm as an old man on a park bench, feeding pigeons on a warm summer afternoon.

“I will bind thee in the Eternal Fire, and into the Lake of Flame and of Brimstone, unless thou comest quickly and appearest here to do my will.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the ring on my hand begin to glow.

1,023 FEET