Queen of the Dark Things (12 page)

I won't name them by name, nor will you find them cataloged as you do in the apocryphal texts,
The Lesser Key of Solomon,
or throughout Crowley's flawed manuscripts. Even their names have power. Just speaking them too loudly can damn you. They are a motley lot, demons and their unholy spawn, djinn and fallen angel alike. Nine kings of Hell, six princes, nearly two dozen dukes; the rest an assortment of counts, marquis, presidents, and knights. And while not all of them are evil, not one of them can be trusted. They were cast together for far too long and have gone to immeasurable lengths to keep their truths hidden. They do not want you to know the truth about them and they see to it that anyone who learns too much comes to a terrible and untimely end. What I share with you now, while true, is what you could simply have culled from millennia-old documents, the Koran, the Bible, the Torah, and myths and stories all surrounding the greatest king of the old world. Solomon.

Thirty centuries ago, long before the veil dropped and all things supernatural still walked in the sight of man, Solomon was named king at the death of his father, David. Undisputed is the fact that Solomon became quite the trafficker with demons. He could summon them, bind them, and force them to do his bidding. The oldest of the stories about him tells of the thirty-six demons he bound into service to build his great temple, using them to cut stone and assemble unearthly masonry, sentencing the most foul and disgusting of them to fetching water or digging ditches.

While the specifics of what drove Solomon to gather together the Seventy-two differ from story to story, the result is always the same. Solomon used his powers to summon and command seventy-two different creatures—not, curiously, all of the same creatures he had previously bound into service—and sealed them in a large brass container, which he then had sunk into the deepest part of the sea. The container was marked from top to bottom with Solomon's own seal, a mark said to keep anything supernatural from opening or even finding it. There it rested at the bottom of the sea for hundreds of years, the Seventy-two creatures within bickering, fighting, and ultimately making peace with one another, promising that if they ever were released, they would ensure that such a thing could never happen again. It would not be until hundreds of years later, when the Babylonians would discover the location of the vessel and break it open, thinking it to contain a portion of Solomon's riches, that these creatures would find freedom. In a few short years, these starving beasts would set into motion the collapse of an entire empire, each honoring his pact to protect his fellows while they corrupted and fed on Babylonian souls.

While contained, peace reigned for forty long years in Solomon's kingdom, no otherworldly creature daring to so much as raise a stern voice against Solomon and his rule. Upon his death, however, all bets were off. Several djinn snuck into his palace during the royal funeral and forged a number of dark works, each penned and signed with Solomon's name. Theory has long held that they did this to discredit him, to make a mockery of his rule and have him branded a sorcerer who had turned his eyes from God. These works would be stolen, copied, and disseminated by sorcerers for the next three thousand years, their wealth of information not only keeping the existence of these foul creatures known to mortals—thus strengthening them—but written in such a manner as to misrepresent the details of their weaknesses and the various ways in which they could be bound or pressed into service.

The truth is, there are few ways to truly bind them, all of them dangerous. The rituals contained in the many occult texts chronicling them teach the reader not how to summon them, but instead only how to get their attention. A member of the Seventy-two doesn't always come when he's called. Instead, he only chooses to visit those he feels he can use or corrupt, those who would pose no real threat to their existence. Aleister Crowley's great many deeds and accomplishments in his field come not from his own power or knowledge, but rather from his ignorance that his visitors found him to be an interesting tool through which they harvested the souls of thousands of knowledge-seeking neophytes.

These demons, and their spawn, feed directly on the misery of others. The mistake most often made about them is that they gain their power from sin. Sin is relative. It exists only in the mind of the sinner. In times past, consuming shellfish or tattooing your body was sinful; in others, uttering certain words or lighting fires on the wrong day. Demons don't measure a person by their sin. They measure them by their guilt. Thus demons rarely have any interest in the truly wicked. Instead they level their gaze at those who might later regret their actions, or whose stomachs turn at witnessing the results of their choices. That feeling you get after cheating on a spouse or stealing from a good friend—that's what they feed on.

Remorseless sorcerers are rarely afforded the courtesy of a visitation. The noble, or the good, or the well intentioned? Those are whom the Seventy-two seek to feed upon. Those are the ones whose calls they will answer. And they will not hesitate to pretend that they might actually in some way be bound or rendered harmless.

Do not talk to them. Do not speak or write their names. Draw no attention to yourself and never ever be so arrogant as to think you can get the better of them in a deal. You will not. These deals are their profession and they have been making them since before the rise of the pyramids. Traffic with them only if you desire a swift death preceded by intense suffering, or a long-drawn-out existence pained by regret.

C
HAPTER
16

A F
IELD OF
B
AD
C
HOICES

C
olby's eyes opened wide, the light of the sun already strong on his face, a chirping cacophony of birds bursting into his ears like a TV blaring suddenly in the middle of the night. He shot up straight, sitting at a perfect ninety-degree angle, feet straight out in front of him, completely unaware of where the hell he was. His head thundered; his throat dry, cracking; his eyes stinging.

His thoughts were muddled; he couldn't process what he was seeing very well at all. Trees. Trees everywhere. Grass. A limestone outcropping. The field.

Holy shit. The field.
He knew where he was.

“Morning,” soothed a voice from behind him.

Colby whipped his head around quickly, immediately regretting his decision. He squinted, pain stabbing him between the eyes, headache murdering his thoughts. “Fuck!” A silhouette stood between him and the sun. Rigid, honed muscles. Copper skin. Deerskin tunic. Broad, friendly smile.

“Someone lost a battle with a bottle last night.”

At once Colby recognized him. “Oh shit. No. No, no, no, no, no, no.”

Coyote waved his hands. “Relax. Truce. I'm here with good intentions.”

“You don't have good intentions.”

“I have the best of intentions. You just won't ever live long enough to see them realized.”

“What do you want, Coyote?”

“To wake you up, pat you on the ass, and send you on your way before things get ugly around here.”

“Excuse me?”

“Half the kingdom heard that little show you put on for us all last night. And there were a number of folks who thought taking advantage of your being passed out might be the best solution to their problems.”

Colby snapped his head back and forth, glancing wildly around, once again regretting doing so. “Ahhhhh!” He cradled his head in his hands, the hangover pulping his brains with each pound inside his skull. “Why didn't they?” he moaned into his hands.

“They realized that you might wake up. And I reminded them that the only thing more dangerous than an angry Texan was a drunk one. They thought better of it.”

“You think?”

Coyote crossed his arms, his tone slightly more serious. “They are exactly where they are supposed to be. You're the bear spoiling the picnic.”

Colby squinted, slightly embarrassed. “I am, aren't I?”

“Yes. You are.”

Colby swallowed, his throat prickly and dry. “Is there water?”

“This way.” Coyote reached down, and taking Colby by the hand, helped him to his feet. He motioned, and Colby followed, walking casually through the sagebrush, past live oaks, toward a nearby stream that babbled louder the closer they got. “Look, Colby,” Coyote continued, “I feel that I owe you. And while I've never lied to you—well, never lied to you about you—”

“Have you lied to me about you?”

“I lie to everyone about me.”

“But wouldn't that have to be a lie?”

Coyote smiled wider, squinting coyly, shaking his head. “No. Because I don't always lie. I only lie enough to make sure no one knows the truth. The rest of the time I'm on the level.” Then he cocked his head to the side, qualifying. “Mostly.”

“And what horseshit do you have for me to shovel today?”

“Horseshit?”

“You're not here as a friend. You want something.”

“Of course I want something. This time around though, I want what you want.”

“And what's that?”

Coyote stopped smiling, the effect of which seemed to dim the harsh bright light of morning. Colby had never seen him not smile, never so much as heard of him not smiling. The old man brooded for a moment, his eyes growing deathly serious, his copper skin creasing unpleasantly. “I want you to survive this.”

Colby panicked, his chest tightening, his heart pounding suddenly. Every muscle in his body tensed up. “Survive what?” He looked around for an ambush, something waiting behind the trees. But there was nothing. Only himself and Coyote. He stopped, but Coyote kept walking, waving for Colby to follow.

“Last night. Your visitors. The demons.”

Colby searched his memories, unsure for a second what he meant. And then it all came flooding back. He rushed to catch back up to Coyote. “What do you know of it? You saw them?”

“Of course I saw them,” said Coyote. “We all saw them. And we felt them before that. Their very presence warps the space around them, changes the rules. Hard to miss. It was the only interesting thing to happen out here for weeks. It was practically theater.” He paused for a beat. “They need you for something.”

“That much I remember.”

“What a demon cannot do for itself, but wants done, most often shouldn't be done at all.”

Colby cradled his head in his right hand, trying to discern how much of what he couldn't understand was being muddled by the hangover and how much of it was just Coyote fucking with him. “I don't understand,” he said at last, resigned.

“No. You don't. And you won't. Not for a while yet. But when you do, you're going to realize just how deep in this you are. Here we are.”

The stream was narrow, hidden past a steep, rocking incline, cutting through the land like it had been dug out by hand. Colby fell to his knees and began cupping water into his mouth. It was spring fed. Pure. The only thing ruining it was the taste of the night before.

“When do I get to understand?” asked Colby.

“That's up to you.”

“So you're not going to tell me.” Colby stood up, his belly sloshing with fresh water. “All due respect to the great and powerful manitou, but I can't take this shit this morning. I'm not going to remember half the stuff I actually even understand coming out of your mouth. If you want to mess with my head, you're going to have to speak slower and be more specific.”

Coyote nodded, intrigued. “I'll tell you this much: they mean to use you. If you do everything exactly as they ask, you'll live through it, but you won't be happy about it.”

“And if I refuse?”

“It'll be worse. Either way, something terrible is coming for you.”

“Something terrible?”

“The past.”

“If you know something, just tell me. They said Australia. This is about her, isn't it? This is about what I did there.”

Coyote nodded. “And a lot more. This goes back a long time. There are games within games going on, bargains within bargains that have yet to see their end. These things, they have intentions so vast and alien that you'll never be able to wrap your mind all the way around them, but even those get trumped by the bargain they made with themselves. Several of them are in trouble, which means they are all in trouble. And they will do whatever it takes to get themselves out. Right now that means using you.”

Colby balled up his fists, knuckles white, jaw tight, teeth grinding together. “Why can't anyone ever be straightforward with me? Why do you all have to use me?”

“Because you try so hard to be good.”

“Because I'm good?”

“No. Because you try to be. The good just are. The ones who try are much more easily manipulated. It's a special kind of selfishness. You always know what someone who tries to be good will do when given a choice. It makes it very easy to set up a field of bad choices. If you can make one of the bad choices look like the
good
thing to do, you know that the man trying to do good will do it. Entire nations have been led to genocide and butchery that way.”

“And I slew a number of fairies that way.”

Coyote beamed with pride. “Yes. And you destroyed La Llorona that way. And you saved a child from the knife that way. And you've done countless other things in the name of goodness that other creatures wanted you to do for them.”

“And now the demons want their turn.”

“Another field of bad choices, none of them good.”

“So what do you want out of all this?”

“For you to make it through to the other side.”

“Because I have some kind of
destiny
?”

“Destiny is a crock, Colby. It's the fairy tale the successful tell themselves to make it seem like they have God or the universe or whatever on their side. Nothing is predetermined. And no one can see the future. Not really. Some of us are gifted enough to see past the lives and the fictions and just see the machine. We can tell you what the machine does, what happens when you turn it on. One gear turning another that turns another. That's the machine. But it doesn't mean we can see the future, can tell when one of those gears will give out and the whole thing will break down. But we can see the long game, one stretching out for decades, centuries, sometimes millennia. Some of us serve ourselves. Some of us serve a higher ideal. But some of us just serve the machine. We keep it running, doing what it is supposed to do, doing what we're supposed to do, because it's our job to keep it running, to make sure those gears fall into place, to replace them when they're about to fall apart.”