The Keys of Solomon
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Authors: Liam Jackson
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Contents
Author's Note: The “What If” Game
St. Martin's Paperbacks Titles by Liam Jackson
More praise for Liam Jackson and Offspring
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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.
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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
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THE NINE CHOIRS OF ANGELS
Angels of Pure Contemplation
Govern All Creation
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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
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4. Dominions
5. Powers
6. Virtues
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Angels of the World
Govern All the World
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7. Principalities
8. Archangels (also included in the First Choir, serving as War Leaders)
9. Angels (Heralds)
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Hierarchy of Angels
Tiers (ranks) from lowest order (Heralds) to highest (Seraphim)
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Heralds: Sharaiel
Virtues
Principalities: Azazeal
Thrones: Joriel
Authorities
Powers: Nathaniel
Dominations: Kiel, Axthiel
Archangels
Cherubim: Baraniel, Theoneal
Seraphim
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Nephilim: Title (or class of angel) given to the most powerful of Fallen Angels, according to some versions of the Old Testament
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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)
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Greater Demon types
Incubus
Succubus
Fane
Wraith
Djinn
Fury: Drammach
Hell Knight
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Demon Lords
Nytemare
Wamphyri
Wyrm
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Nine Princes of Sitra Akhra
Abbadon, Baphomet, Baal-Peor, Beelzebub, Leviathan, Lix Tetrax (also called Blight), Mastema, Melchiresa, Malach-bel (also called Dread Moloch)
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Emperor
Nemesis
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“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⦔
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Sister Agnes, Our Lady of Akita Catholic Church, prophesying for the Virgin Mary, 1973
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“And the angels, terrible and without pity, carry savage weapons, and their torture is unmerciful.”
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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'?”
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
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 threaded 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.
