The Seal of Solomon (Alfred Kropp #2)(71)

I could see the ground now—though there was no ground to be seen. Only a roaring fire, flames shooting hundreds of feet into the air toward me. It was like looking at the surface of the sun.

I pulled my arms and legs back toward my body and flipped onto my back. Countless orange balls of fiery light filled my entire field of vision, like burning meteors screaming toward the earth, and in the lead Paimon came, holding a flaming sword in its right hand, and the thing it rode came at me openmouthed, teeth shining in the light, flying faster than I could fall. I held my left fist straight up, pointing the ring at them as I finished the spell and hell’s flames came rushing up to meet me:

“Come thou Paimon! For it is not I but God that commandest thee!”

476 FEET

The beast’s mouth flung open and its foul breath washed over me as I whispered, because my howling was finished, “Save me.”

And it caught me in its mouth with maybe four feet to spare above the roaring flames, carrying me in its teeth as gently as a dog carries her puppies. It deposited me on the scorched and smoking ground before swooping back into the sky.

I lay there for a very long time, blinking stupidly at the spinning shapes beneath the clouds, forming the wheels of fire, thousands of them one within the other. Then I didn’t feel so warm and empty anymore, and I rolled onto my stomach, coughing and heaving, the ring on my left hand pulsing pure white light.

I raised my head a little and saw King Paimon standing there, and it was just like the Sahara, except this time the ring burned on my hand, and this time Paimon kneeled to me, Alfred Kropp, beloved of the archangel who cast it down.

And it held in its right hand the sword that I had lost in my fall, the same sword the Last Knight had lost in another hopeless battle against the forces of darkness and despair. And the mighty Paimon, King of the Outcasts of Heaven, lowered its head, offering me the sword.

Command me.

PART FIVE

Homecoming

56

A little man with an egg-shaped head glared at me through the half-open front door while his wife and kids crowded behind him, trying to get a peek at me. “Yes, what do you want?”

“Horace,” I said. “Don’t you know who I am?”

I slipped off my Oakleys. His eyes grew wide and his mouth came open a little.

“Alfred?” he squeaked. “We heard you were dead!”

He flung the door open and I put a hand on his chest to abort his bear hug.

“Not anymore,” I said. “Where’s Kenny?”

There was a commotion behind him and I heard a voice call out, “Alfred! Alfred Kropp! Alfred Kropp! Alfred Kropp is back!”

Kenny pushed past Horace and buried his face in my chest.

“They came and took your sword, Alfred! I tried to stop them. I tried and tried and tried . . .”

“It’s okay, Kenny,” I said. “I got it back.”

“You came back,” he whispered.

“Told you I would. Didn’t I promise I’d save you?”

I motioned to the man standing behind me. He stepped forward and cleared his throat.

“Good morning, Mr. Tuttle, how are you? I’m Larry Fredericks with the Department of Child Welfare. I have here a court order authorizing the removal of these foster children.”

“You have what?” Horace barked.

“I said I have a court order authorizing . . .”

“Oh, dear!” I heard Betty gasp.

“This is outrageous!” Horace yelled. “I demand an explanation! I demand a hearing! I demand to know who is responsible for this!”

“That would be me,” I said.

“You?” Horace’s bottom lip bobbed up and down. “You, Alfred?”

“Me.”

I wrapped my arm around Kenny’s shoulders and led him to the silver Lexus parked by the curb. Horace kept yelling as the cruiser pulled into the drive with the sheriff’s deputies.

I opened the door for Kenny and he asked, “Where are you taking me, Alfred Kropp?”

“You’re going to stay with Mr. Needlemier for a while,” I said, nodding toward his smiling, baby-faced bald head behind the steering wheel. “Until we can figure something out.”

I looked back at the little house on Broadway. Horace had thrown a couple of strands of those old-fashioned Christmas lights with the fat multicolored bulbs on the bare branches of some azalea bushes the cold had killed, and had put out the same old faded light-up Santa (only it didn’t light up anymore because the bulb was missing and he was too cheap to replace it).

It was two days before Christmas, and cold, but the sun was bright and the shade of the stunted dogwood by the front walk was sharp and hard-looking. I slipped the Oakley Razrwires back on. My eyes had become sensitive to light.

“I’ll see you back at the house,” I told Mr. Needlemier.

“You’re not coming with me?” Kenny asked, panic setting in.

“Sometime this afternoon, Kenny,” I said. “I’m late for a meeting.” As if on cue, the Bluetooth buzzed in my ear and I pressed the button next to my temple to answer.

“This is Alfred Kropp,” I said. I closed Kenny’s door and walked behind the Lexus to the CCR. I saw Kenny staring at me—or maybe I was flattering myself and he was really staring at the car—through the back window of the Lexus as Mr. Needlemier pulled slowly away from the curb. The deputies, Mr. Fredericks, and the Tuttles had gone inside the house. The place felt abandoned, but it probably felt that way because I was abandoning it.