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  OFFSPRING

  Liam Jackson

  St. Martin's Paperbacks

  NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  OFFSPRING

  Copyright © 2006 by Liam Jackson.

  Excerpt from The Keys of Solomon copyright © 2008 by Liam Jackson. Cover illustration © Jonathan Barkat. All rights reserved.

  For information address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2006048465

  ISBN: 0-312-94550-7 EAN: 978-0-312-94550-3

  Printed in the United States of America

  St. Martin's Press hardcover edition / October 2006 St. Martin's Paperbacks edition / September 2008

  St. Martin's Paperbacks are published by St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  10 987654321

  For Jo and Tabitha

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would be shamefully remiss if I did not acknowledge the incredible people that have supported me in this endeavor. In no particular order:

  The Incorrigibles, Barb, Mac, Lori, and Ray, who walked every step of Sam's journey, providing invaluable comments and story tweaks along the way. Lou Aronica, owner of the Fiction Studio, who taught me much about storytelling, and a man I'm proud to call friend and mentor. Jenna Glatzer and the Cletus group at AbsoluteWrite.com, who helped hold me together during my life-threatening illness in 2003-2004. James D. MacDonald for his suggestions and encouragement during the early stages of the book. Super agents Peter Miller and Kelly Skillen, who went above and beyond the call of duty. My publisher, Thomas Dunne. John Parsley, my editor at Thomas Dunne Books and the most patient guy in the world, this side of Job. And finally, you, the reader. Without you, there would be no story worth telling. To one and all, my sincere appreciation.

  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)

  There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown.

  —Gen. 6:4, AV

  And there was war in Heaven; Michael and his angels fought against the dragon; and the Dragon fought and his angels, And prevailed not; neither was their place found anymore in Heaven. And the great Dragon was cast out, that old serpent, called the Devil, and Satan, which deceiveth the whole world; he was cast out into the earth, and his angels were cast out with him.

  —Rev. 12:7-9, AV

  ...they said, "This fellow doth not cast out devils, but by Beelzebub, the prince of the devils." —Matt. 12:24, AV

  The Great Mysteries are nae as mysterious as we imagine or pretend. If ye subtract the deliberate man-made subterfuge, the malicious manipulation of Truth, everything becomes quite clear...and may Heaven save us from the Truth. Nar laga Dia do lamh. May God not weaken your hand.

  —Brother Anglin McCarthy, Holy Order of Watchers, c. 1521, Glasgow, Scotland

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

  —Witnessed by Enoch on the third level of heaven, and recorded in The Legend of the Jews

  ...for the things that are seen are temporal; but the things that are not seen are eternal. —2 Cor. 4:12

  PROLOGUE

  Amarillo, Texas

  Sam Conner ran through the busy intersection like the Devil himself was hot on his ass. He paid no attention to the harsh sounds of rush-hour traffic, ignoring the curses of angry drivers, blaring horns, and the whine of tread on wet asphalt. The consequences of being run down by a half-ton pickup truck were insignificant when compared to that of being caught by the Enemy.

  As Sam leapt across a rain-filled pothole, his knees buckled from fatigue. He staggered drunkenly, then caught his balance and continued along the sidewalk, head down, arms and legs pumping. His throat and lungs burned fiercely from the cold, damp air, but it never occurred to Sam that he should rest for a moment. Not yet. Repeatedly, he replayed the Voice's blunt message, "You stop, you die." For the past half hour, Sam hadn't considered resting an option.

  Several blocks later, and teetering on the precipice of exhaustion, Sam ducked into a litter-strewn alley and crouched behind a large, overflowing Dumpster. He dropped his duffel bag to the pavement and massaged his calf muscles with both hands. He could feel the knots forming, the telltale signs of an impending leg cramp. Sam bit his lip and cursed his luck and the relentless pursuit. If the Enemy caught up with him now, he'd be done.

  "Not now, damn it," he pleaded, vigorously kneading his leg. "Oh, man! Please, not now!" He was more than a little surprised, and grateful, as the knots relaxed, then disappeared completely.

  Sam worked the strained muscles for a few minutes more until he was sure the cramp had passed. Then, cautiously, he peeked around the side of the Dumpster. Traffic was still heavy, but he could see a full block of downtown Amarillo in either direction. There was no sign of the Enemy.

  Sam desperately needed information. He mopped perspiration from his forehead with a grimy coat sleeve while considering his limited options. After only a few seconds, he made his decision. He would reach.

  Sam closed his eyes and began drawing a detailed mental image of the white Lincoln Continental that hounded him.

  He knew that he was courting disaster, but he had to know. The mystery car had an irritating habit of appearing out of thin air, chasing him until he was ready to drop, then disappearing again for long stretches of time. The game of cat and mouse was taking a serious toll on Sam's psyche.

  Old beater...'77 or '78 model? Tinted windows all the way around. No, not tinted. Black as ink, like looking into space on a cloudy night. White sidewall tires, curb feelers... long and silver, one on each rim. Bullet-nosed TV aerial on the trunk deck. The stink of something dead... yeah... just like that...

  The mental image formed quickly, filling out with minute detail until it had dimension, depth, and texture. Okay, asshole. I gotcha now. Where are you? Where the hell are you?

  With the image locked into his mind, Sam unleashed mental tendrils, probing the surrounding area for that telltale sign, that flicker of recognition. At first, he sensed nothing, a vast, empty void, and his anxiety increased tenfold. He knew from experience that sensing "nothing" was always worse than sensing "something." As long as he could feel the Enemy,
he had a chance of staying one step ahead.

  I know he's out there, so why can't I feel him? Maybe my radar is on the blink. Or... maybe he's found a way to hide from me. Shit! He could be anywhere. Anywhere! What now?

  Immediately, an urgent ringing of wind chimes sounded in his head. "What kind of answer is that?" he demanded. The Voice didn't reply.

  Then it was there, a tiny, yet unmistakable blip on the far edge of Sam's mental radar screen. He pushed all other thoughts from his mind and focused tightly on his pursuer. The Lincoln was moving to the south, away from him. Wait... he's slowing down. Damn! He knows I'm looking for him. I'm busted! Sam broke the connection, sagged to the pavement, and leaned back against the Dumpster.

  "Any ideas?" asked Sam. He expected a reply, but his invisible companion remained silent. "You picked a hell of time to go quiet on me." Sam sighed and rested his head on his knees. "I'm so friggin' tired."

  A stiff, bitter wind swept through the alley, and Sam glanced up. The afternoon sky was a cold, threatening shade of gray, and the temperature was plummeting. It never snows in Texas... does it? Sam huddled down inside the oversized coat, arms folded tightly across his thin chest. He was tired, cold, hungry, and afraid. Sam figured it was a toss-up as to which of those issues took precedence. Then he recalled the paralyzing sense of dread that came over him whenever the Lincoln appeared, or worse, when it dropped completely off his mental radar. "Afraid. Yep, 'afraid' definitely has the lead over 'tired, cold, and hungry.'"

  The wind chimes again fluttered in his head, but this time louder and more agitated. Clearly, the Voice was warning him. Sam paused for moment to clear his senses, then sent out a tentative mental probe. Contact was immediate, and he knew: Oh, crap! The bastard doubled back. He's headed straight for me. Five minutes. Maybe less.

  Sam struggled to his feet and gingerly tested the muscles in his leg. He was relieved when everything appeared to be in working order. Shouldering the duffel bag, Sam jogged the length of the alley, and emerged onto a busy one-way avenue.

  Over the past several hundred miles, Sam had learned to use street layouts to avoid or lose the Enemy. Traffic-heavy intersections and one-way avenues were ideal for giving the Lincoln the slip, and Sam now considered himself a pro at using these devices to his fullest advantage.

  Sam turned to his left upon reaching the end of the alley, and followed the cracked and dirty sidewalk past a row of small shops. He walked along at what he hoped would pass for an inconspicuous pace, but his eyes moved side to side, in perpetual motion. The Enemy was a slick son of a bitch, and had nearly cornered him on a couple of occasions. Sam knew he couldn't afford to relax, not for an instant, or the Enemy would have him for dinner. Then there was the police. He was certain his parents had filed a missing persons report by now, and the last thing he needed was some well-intentioned cop hauling him in as a runaway. While many details of his journey still remained a mystery, Sam trusted the Voice. His companion had been with him since... forever, and had never steered him wrong. If the Voice said it was imperative that Sam go to Tennessee, well then, he had to try. No, he would do more than try. He would reach Tennessee and find the Eye of God.

  Head down and eyes darting, Sam continued along the sidewalk for several blocks. A sense of dread wrapped around his large intestines and squeezed, the pressure increasing with every step. Sam fully expected the Lincoln to appear at his back at any moment. The Enemy had fooled him before. It was about to do so again.

  Sam glanced left, then right, before stepping off the sidewalk and into the mouth of another alley. He was halfway across when squealing tires and the throaty rumble of dual exhausts sent him tumbling across the asphalt. The Lincoln seemed to materialize from the air less than a dozen feet away. With engine roaring and tires smoking, the car bore down on him with murderous intent.

  Sam flung the duffel bag ahead, then dove headlong toward the corner storefront. In a single, fluid motion, he rolled to his feet, snatched up the canvas duffel and promptly ran into an elderly woman carrying a Waldenbooks shopping bag. Only the quicksilver reflexes of youth averted another potential disaster. Sam bounced lightly off the startled woman without disturbing so much as a strand of her smoke-blue hair and muttered a quick, "Sorry, lady." He then slung the duffel bag over his shoulder and made for the other side of the street, praying to God that the Lincoln wouldn't be able to cross the multiple lanes in time to run him down.

  Sam reached the other side of the street just ahead of a jacked-up Chevy crew cab, and a thoroughly pissed-off Stetson-wearing cowboy at the wheel. This time, Sam ran along the sidewalk, back in the direction he'd come, against the traffic. For a second, he was afraid that the driver would leave the truck in the middle of the street and chase him on foot. Sam winced at the mental image. The notion of coming this far only to be beaten to a pulp by Cowboy Bob was almost comical. Almost.

  Another twenty minutes passed before Sam stopped again to rest. The pain in his leg was back with a vengeance and he couldn't afford to ignore it any longer. Coming up lame would be tantamount to coming up dead.

  Sam found himself standing in front of an old two-story, built entirely of burnished brick and missing all but a few windows. The front door hung slack from rusted hinges, and from the top of the crumbling concrete steps, Sam could see a steel and vinyl graveyard of broken office furniture scattered throughout the expansive first floor. Sam ducked inside and immediately checked for exits. If he intended to rest here, he would first have to mark the escape routes.

  A winding path through the debris led Sam to a back door that opened out onto a weed-infested parking lot. Beyond the parking lot, a narrow side street ran north and south.

  "Good enough," he muttered under his breath.

  Good enough, echoed the Voice.

  Sam opened his duffel bag, rummaged around for a moment, then pulled out a thick, olive-green woolen blanket, the kind found at any military surplus store. For long seconds, Sam stood staring at the blanket, absently fingering the coarse material. It had been a parting gift from Kat, though he couldn't imagine where she'd found it. Typical twelve-year-old girls seldom shopped at army-navy stores. Of course, Kat wasn't typical.

  Sam smiled, folded the blanket neatly in half, and laid it on the floor. Finally, he unzipped his coat, sat down on the blanket, and lay back on the half-filled duffel bag. A quick check beneath the desks revealed a clear view of the front and back exits.

  Cozy spot. Might even risk a fire, and catch a nap before hitching a ride out of town later tonight. Of course, I could always backtrack to the bus station and leave outta here on a Trailways.

  Sam heard the angry clang of chimes and clearly understood their meaning. "Easy! Just kidding."

  From the start, the Voice had been adamantly opposed to Sam taking either a bus or plane to Tennessee. Once before, when he had pressed for a reason, the Voice whispered a single word in answer, Trap. That was the end of any serious notions Sam may have had about buses or planes.

  Sam leaned back against a three-legged desk and closed his eyes. He was asleep within minutes, dozing fitfully for an hour or so, until the temperature inside the building dropped to an uncomfortable level and he awoke shivering. Yawning widely, he dragged the duffel bag into his lap and unfastened the simple clasp. After rummaging inside the bag for a moment, he pulled out an empty one-pound coffee can, a roll of toilet tissue, and an unopened bottle of isopropyl alcohol. He grinned as he prepared his "heater." Amazing what a guy can learn from watching the Discovery Channel.

  Sam stuffed the roll of tissue into the can and slowly added the alcohol, allowing ample time for the tissue to absorb every drop of the liquid. Next, Sam pulled a disposable lighter from his pocket and touched a tiny flame to the top of the tissue. The result was a clean-burning fire that consumed the alcohol, but left the tissue untouched. Sam knew the paper wouldn't burn until all of the alcohol had been consumed. Best of all, it was cheap.

  He hovered close over the flame, enjoying the warmth.
Within minutes, the worst of the shivering stopped, and he again dug into the duffel bag and pulled out the dog-eared road atlas. He looked at the cover for a moment, thinking back to the night, six months earlier, when he had discovered the atlas lying on his bed. With the tip of his finger, he traced the route from Amarillo to Abbotsville, Tennessee. "Three more days, four tops," he mumbled. In Abbotsville, he would find his answers, or so the Voice said. There, he would find the Eye of God. Provided, of course, he could stay ahead of that goddamned Lincoln. Maybe he should have taken a bus.

  Without warning, a ribbon of brilliant, multicolored emotion fluttered through Sam's mind. "Whoa! Ease up. I can't follow all of that." Immediately, the colors dimmed to a rainbow of soft pastels. Sam tried to understand, but the meaning still eluded him. The jumbled mixture of emotions began to coalesce, gradually forming a structured thought.

  ... Eye of God. Close the Veil.

  The familiar words echoed throughout Sam's tired mind.

  "Yeah, yeah. I know. You've been telling me that for months now. But you still haven't told me what a veil is or how I'm supposed to close it.

  "Coulda, woulda, shoulda... Jee-zus, I'm tired. Just need a short nap... a couple of hours, maybe. Then we'll be— yawn—up and on our way." Sam snuggled deeper into the folds of his oversized coat. With the Voice keeping silent vigil, Sam drifted off into a troubled sleep.

  CHAPTER 1

  The Bronx, New York

  Little Stevie Berlain desperately needed some gas, the kind that came from a syringe filled with liquid fire. He hurried across the deserted parking lot, one trembling hand holding a Kool short to his cracked and bleeding lips, the other in his jacket pocket, holding the hypodermic.

  To most, it seemed another typical January night in the South Bronx, bitterly cold with a bone-chilling wind. All the talking heads said that, coast to coast, it was the coldest winter in modern history. However, Stevie was oblivious to the cold. In his clouded mind, it was springtime and all the birds were singing. He had just scored and the party was on. His only bitch was with his dealer and the ever-increasing cost of product.