The Keys of Solomon Read online

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraphs

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Author’s Note: The “What If” Game

  Glossary of Terms

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles by Liam Jackson

  More praise for Liam Jackson and Offspring

  Copyright

  For Jo, Tabitha, and Tiffany

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to extend my eternal gratitude to friend and mentor Lou Aronica, super-agent Peter Miller, my editor, Lorrie McCann, and publisher Thomas Dunne.

  And I thank you, gentle reader. Without you there is no story.

  Angels in their various roles have long been focal points of theological debate and biblical interpretation. Conclusions, as one might surmise, are myriad and highly diverse. In writing Offspring, I have attempted to remain true to mainstream theology as it pertains to the Host of Heaven. The Hierarchy, as identified in Offspring, can be found below.

  Divinity: Uncreated Energy

  Creation: Created Energy

  THE NINE CHOIRS OF ANGELS

  Angels of Pure Contemplation

  Govern All Creation

  1. Seraphim

  2. Cherubim

  3. Thrones

  (Archangels are also associated with the First Choir, in their capacity as War Leaders, i.e. Michael and the First War in Heaven)

  Angels of the Cosmos

  Govern All the Cosmos

  4. Dominions

  5. Powers

  6. Virtues

  Angels of the World

  Govern All the World

  7. Principalities

  8. Archangels (also included in the First Choir, serving as War Leaders)

  9. Angels (Heralds)

  Hierarchy of Angels

  Tiers (ranks) from lowest order (Heralds) to highest (Seraphim)

  Heralds: Sharaiel

  Virtues

  Principalities: Azazeal

  Thrones: Joriel

  Authorities

  Powers: Nathaniel

  Dominations: Kiel, Axthiel

  Archangels

  Cherubim: Baraniel, Theoneal

  Seraphim

  * * *

  Nephilim: Title (or class of angel) given to the most powerful of Fallen Angels, according to some versions of the Old Testament

  Hierarchy of Sitra Akhra (Demons)

  (from lowest order to highest)

  Minor Demons

  Commonly called “beasts” or “soldiers” (over a dozen sub-types of minor demons, collectively referred to as Legion)

  Greater Demon types

  Incubus

  Succubus

  Fane

  Wraith

  Djinn

  Fury: Drammach

  Hell Knight

  Demon Lords

  Nytemare

  Wamphyri

  Wyrm

  Nine Princes of Sitra Akhra

  Abbadon, Baphomet, Baal-Peor, Beelzebub, Leviathan, Lix Tetrax (also called Blight), Mastema, Melchiresa, Malach-bel (also called Dread Moloch)

  Emperor

  Nemesis

  “The work of the devil will infiltrate even into the Church in such a way that one will see cardinals opposing cardinals, bishops against bishops. The priests who venerate me will be scorned and opposed by their confreres … churches and altars sacked; the Church will be full of those who accept compromises and the demons will press many priests and consecrated souls…”

  —Sister Agnes, Our Lady of Akita Catholic Church, prophesying for the Virgin Mary, 1973

  “And the angels, terrible and without pity, carry savage weapons, and their torture is unmerciful.”

  —The Ascension of Enoch from The Book of the Jews

  CHAPTER 1

  East St. Louis, Missouri

  The building reeked of the enemy. The odor of sulfur and cat urine was stale, perhaps days or weeks old, but it was there nonetheless. Thomas Falco wrinkled his hypersensitive nose and looked around the dimly lit interior of the motel. Beneath the façade of new plaster and fresh paint, potentially lethal black mold festered on the walls and floors, spreading the length of the lobby. Falco grimaced at the metaphorical significance. He moved to the front desk and set his bags upon the dirty tiled floor.

  The desk clerk blocked a yawn with the back of his hand, then said, “’Sup, man? What brings you to the murder capital of the western hemisphere?”

  Without looking up from the desk, Falco said, “I thought Gary, Indiana, held that distinction.”

  “Bullshit,” replied the young man between more yawns. “Gary’s got nothing but a bunch of poseurs and wannabe playas. Eastside is the real deal.”

  Falco completed the motel registration card and slid it across the desk to the scruffily dressed clerk. The young man had the sleepy eyes and broad, idiot grin of the terminally stoned, and Falco immediately both resented and pitied him. He wanted to snatch the fool by the back of his scrawny neck and shake some sense into him. Instead, Falco thought, You really don’t want to know why I’m here. So do yourself a favor, kid, and invest in another quarter-bag of whatever shit you’re smoking. Trust me on this one.

  “I’m just in town to visit an old friend and maybe do some sightseeing.”

  The word sightseeing seemed to trigger something in the stoner’s hazy mind. He gave Falco a goofy, exaggerated nod, and a knowing wink. “Ah, sightseeing. Right. I’m tracking with you now. Well, here’s a tip for you, my man. Don’t let looks deceive you, know what I’m saying? We might be in the low-rent district, but we know how to show our guests a good time. Know what I’m sayin’? You need anything, anything at all, you let me know.” Another exaggerated wink. “So, how long you staying?”

  “I’m not sure. A couple of days, maybe. I’ll let you know.”

  The clerk gave Falco a third wink followed by another lazy grin, and dropped a plastic door card onto the sticky countertop.

  “That’s cool, dude, that’s cool. Room 112. As you walk out the front door, turn, umm, right. Yeah, right. Last room at the end of the walk.”

  Falco nodded, picked up the key and his suitcase, and started away from the desk. Over his shoulder, he called out, “No maids, no disturbances. Know what I’m sayin’?”

  * * *

  Once outside, Falco crossed the parking lot to the rental car and retrieved the rest of his luggage. On the way to the room, he chose a leisurely pace, taking care to thoroughly check his surroundings. Run-down strip mall to the left, mega truck stop to the right. Elementary school across the highway. Not much traffic. Nothing out of the ordinary. Not yet.

  Satisfied, he kicked the snow from his boots and entered the motel room. The place smelled of cigarette smoke, sour beer, and more cat piss. The furnishings were sparse and in poor condition. Against the far wall, a swayback mattress lay atop a warped, metal frame. A funky little neo-modernist lamp leaned crazily atop a three-legged bedside table. A pair of ugly, vinyl-covered chairs flanked a rickety desk in front of the room’s single window. Falco was certain the decorator had been a fan of Pleistocene-era art nouveau, a dinosaur best left dead and in the ground.

  A shrill bell sounded across the street, and the shouts of young children penetrated the thin walls of the room. It’s not time for school to let out. I can’t be running that far behind. Falco glanced at his watch. It was 1:45 P.M. Good. Just an afternoon recess. I’m not too far off schedule.

  He stepped to the window and looked out on the busy grade-school playground across the street. A pair of marked police cars were parked along the shoulder of the highway, at opposite ends of the school property. Falco was certain more cruisers were similarly situated on the back side of the grounds. Prudent considering current events, he thought.

  Prudent, but futile. You can’t stop them, Mr. Policeman, sir. You and a thousand more just like you can’t stop them. Legion comes. Falco drew the curtains together and returned to the bed. It was time to prepare.

  He opened his suitcase and carefully removed his clothing and equipment and arranged the items in neat, separate piles on the bed. First, he inspected the night-vision monocular, a small cylindrical device that allowed him to see thermal imprints in total darkness. A quick self-test indicated that the battery was hot and the instrument was working properly.

  Next, he removed a sound suppressor from its protective pouch and inspected the screw threads. Dry. He took a tube of waxy lip balm from his pocket, removed the cap, and squeezed a liberal amount of the balm inside the t
hreaded connector. He worked the greasy paste into the threads, then reexamined his handiwork. Much better. He laid the suppressor aside and opened a small polymer case.

  Inside the case, surrounded by thick foam, was another primary tool of his trade, a Glock model 29, chambered in powerful 10 millimeter. Falco inspected the weapon, then threaded the suppressor onto the barrel extension. Then he checked the ammunition and spare magazines. He tapped each magazine against the heel of his hand to seat the shells, ensuring a proper feed into the semi-automatic handgun.

  Finally, he checked his combat knife, a legacy item and constant reminder of his former life. The knife slid easily from the oiled sheath. Thomas thumbed the single edge of the Ka-Bar. If only men were as strong and reliable as the steel in my blade.

  Stifling a yawn, Falco inserted the knife back into the sheath and rubbed his eyes with thick, callused fingers. “So tired.” Thomas shook his head. “No. I can be tired when this is over.” He resumed his meticulous preparations.

  A half-hour later, after each tool had been thoroughly examined and the ammo counted and recounted, it was time to perform the Sacrament of Holy Orders, one of seven such sacraments of the Catholic Church, and a requirement of the codex by which Falco lived and served. This particular ritual was steeped in tradition and far older than the Brotherhood Falco served. Many members within his sect had long argued against using the Sacrament of Holy Orders in favor of some other ritual.

  Yet in the end, use of the sacrament was approved for servants of Falco’s unique vocation. After all, the Sacrament of Holy Orders was intended to imbue a priest with the voice and authority of Christ in certain instances. How could any other ritual be more pertinent or germane to Falco’s mission? Was he not speaking for all of Christendom through his actions?

  The sacrament was followed by another process, the Rite of Purification. This ceremony, based on New Testament scripture, had a two-fold purpose. First, it was designed to free the tools of any extraneous contamination. The second purpose, and one of much greater significance for Thomas, was to free the user from sin or guilt associated with using the tools. Thomas had never fully bought into the notion that any ritual could absolve him of his many sins, past, present, or future. However, he faithfully performed the rite before every mission. He decided long ago that in his line of work, it was best to cover all the bases.

  Falco removed an ornate, leather-bound box from an inner pocket of his suitcase. From the box he took a centuries-old rosary and laid it aside. Next, he removed a white satin vestment stole, pressed it to his lips, then draped it around his neck and crossed the ends over his chest. Finally, he took the last item from the box, a small bottle made of jeweled cloisonné.

  Falco knelt beside the bed and removed the cork stopper from the bottle. He dribbled some of the water into his palm and with his index finger, traced the outline of a cross upon his forehead. In a final act of consecration, he sprinkled droplets onto the grips of the handgun and combat knife. Bowing his head, he intoned the ancient ritual prayer, much as it had been recited some eight hundred years earlier. Minutes later, as he neared the finish, Falco raised his hands toward the ceiling and whispered, “Non Nobis Domine Non Nobis Sed Nomini Tuo Da Gloriam.” Not Unto Us, O Lord, But Unto Thy Name Be Given Glory.

  Monday 11:05 P.M., Room 312

  A puzzling and persistent noise nagged at Falco’s tired mind from some distant place. He was sure he had heard the bothersome sound before and knew he should recognize it. Fire alarm? No. Phone? Phone! Rolling over onto his side, Falco took a moment to readjust the shoulder holster, then picked up his cell phone. He checked the incoming call and recognized the number.

  “Hello?”

  A hoarse, raspy voice answered, “Thomas?”

  The voice was familiar but this was a time for extreme caution. The Enemy was treacherous and deceitful beyond imagination.

  “Who’s calling?” Falco asked.

  There was a slight hesitation on the other end, then, “The First Shield. You sound a bit disoriented. Did I wake you?”

  Falco felt none of the inner alarms ringing in his head. Still, he needed confirmation. It was highly unusual for a man of the First Shield’s status to call a mere field operative, even if the two men were old acquaintances.

  “I’m fine, Your Grace. Just a bit groggy. Guess the miles are catching up with me. That’s a long flight out of Boston.”

  “Understandable, Thomas, quite so. However, you didn’t fly out of Boston. It was Miami. And please, ‘Your Grace’ seems too formal among old friends. If not Nicholas, then Bishop Gilbert will do.”

  Bishop. Heh. Falco relaxed. “Just checking, Your Gra—Nicholas. I hope you aren’t offended by my suspicions.”

  “No, not at all. In fact, I prefer that you always exercise such caution. We live in very dangerous times, my boy. You know what happened to Cohlin Ridley only a month past.”

  Falco’s jaw muscles twitched at the mention of his former partner. “Yes, I know.”

  “I—I’m sorry. Of course you do. I know the two of you were very close.” Archbishop Gilbert quickly changed the subject. “When do you expect William?”

  “I’m scheduled to fly out tomorrow afternoon, and arrive in Phoenix around 9:30 P.M. A freak snowstorm came through the area last night, but it’s blown itself out. I doubt there’ll be any airport delays.”

  Once more, there was a hesitation, though Falco could hear the sound of labored breathing. Gilbert’s bronchitis was acting up again.

  After a long pause, Gilbert said, “Did you receive the packet?”

  “Yeah. Lexis personally gave it to me just before I boarded my flight. I’m set unless there have been some last-minute changes.”

  “No changes,” replied Gilbert. “Our orders stand.” Again, an extended silence.

  After a moment, Falco nodded absently. “I’ll be in touch once I’m in the air and en route to Phoenix.”

  Gilbert coughed, then said, “Did you have a chance to catch the evening news? Depressing but telling. It seems things are heating up very quickly.”

  Falco was unsure how to answer. Of course, things are heating up! Why else would I be in St. Louis, preparing to kill …

  Instead of wasting sarcasm on his well-intentioned superior, Falco simply said, “Yes, Nicholas, things are certainly heating up. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Of course, of course. I’ll let you attend your task, now. God speed, Thomas.”

  Falco disconnected the call and looked at his watch. Not yet midnight. I can catch another hour of sleep. But as soon as the notion of sleep entered his mind, he pushed it aside. Falco knew that there would be no more rest tonight. He dressed in the dark, the mission unfolding, playing out in his mind. Again and again, he mentally traced the route leading to a country estate just north of the city of St. Louis. There he would find his target. He shouldered his nylon pack and headed for the parking lot.

  He unlocked the door, then paused for a moment, breathing in the night air. He closed his eyes and extended his senses. He was rewarded by an immediate tug on the fringe of his consciousness, the faint, yet unmistakable presence of his supernatural adversaries. Detecting the Enemy by use of his God-given gift was always unnerving.

  While the gift was accurate, it also meant the Enemy would be nearby. What he wouldn’t give for a bit more range, say, another three or four miles. This Enemy was prowling the night, thus it was most likely a minor minion. At least Falco could be thankful for that. While minions were likely to kill, they usually claimed single victims before crawling back to the nest. The demon lords were another, far more serious matter. He quickly broke contact with the minion and closed his senses. Falco threw his pack into the passenger seat and folded himself into the compact. Thirty minutes later, he was outside of the city and headed toward the Bedford Country Club.

  * * *

  Falco was familiar with the long stretch of cracked asphalt. Every curve, every dip, every pothole was committed to memory. He exited the county road fourteen miles east of St. Louis and turned left onto a freshly paved roadway. He drove along for several miles before cutting his headlights. Falco preferred to drive the final miles by moonlight and instinct, paying close attention to the odometer. When he drew within a couple of miles of his destination, he pulled the car off the roadway and into the tree line. Killing the motor, he glanced at the luminous dial on his watch. It was 2:55 A.M. Right on time.