The Seal of Solomon by Rick Yancey Page B

Bulging red eyes, a neck thick and gnarled as a tree trunk, globules of slobber hanging from its open mouth.
    â€œThat’s not a dromedary,” I said. “That’s a camel.”
    It stopped a dozen yards from our circle. It stopped, but the bellowing didn’t. This perverted memory of an animal was in some serious pain.
    A man-shape balanced on the forward hump, with a shining face like those of the demon-lords who circled high above us, lean and almost girl-like with its large eyes, delicate nose, and full, sensuous lips. A crown glittered on its head, spewing radiant light, red and gold and aqua and green, that shot out from its brow like laser beams.
    A dark shape fell away from the rear hump of the monster camel and dropped to the sand. It walked slowly toward us, and beside me Op Nine whispered, “Hold, hold.” He had pulled off his helmet, so the rest of us followed suit.
    He was ordinary size, the man who now walked toward us, and he didn’t carry a flaming sword or burning staff or anything like that. His head was bare. He wore a white robe that had come open, so beneath it I could see his khakis and white Lacoste polo.
    And, of course, he was smacking gum.
    â€œHey, guys, how’s it goin’?” Mike Arnold asked.

22
    â€œMichael,” Abigail said.
    â€œAbby Smith—hey, it’s pleasing as pickles to see you! I don’t care what they said in headquarters, you’re still a heck of a field agent in my book, and by the way you look just fantastic in that jumper.”
    He looked at Op Nine. “Figured you’d be here, Padre. Sort of the culmination of your whole career, huh. No thanks necessary.”
    Then he saw me. “Al Kropp! My God, is that you? Jeez, kid, you’re like the Forrest Gump of supernatural disasters— you’re always everywhere!”
    He clapped his hands together. “So! This it? This all you brought for the greatest intrusion event in the past three millennia? I feel a little disappointed, to tell you the truth.”
    â€œYou’re not the only one who is disappointed, Michael,” Abby Smith said.
    â€œWell, like the old saying goes, you gotta crack a few eggs to make an omelet.” He spread his arms wide, palms facing toward us.
    I saw the ring then, the Great Seal of Solomon, shining on his right hand. Twice as thick as the average wedding ring, it shone with a reddish, coppery color.
    â€œTell us what you want, Michael,” Abigail said.
    â€œOh, it’s not what I want, Abby,” Mike said. “Or what anybody wants, really. It’s more of what we need .”
    Abby and Op Nine exchanged a puzzled look.
    â€œLook, I’m not going to bust your chops,” Mike went on. “It’s a damned shame, but sometimes damned shames are necessary. Kind of like the demons here. That’s my new best friend Paimon on the camel with the thyroid condition. I’ve freed all of ’em, down to the last demon, and they’re all angry as hell, if you’ll excuse the expression. They’ve been cooped up in a cell the size of a birdcage for the past three thousand years. Things got a little testy in there, as you can imagine.”
    â€œEnough,” Op Nine said sharply. His tone was like a father who had run out of patience with a lippy kid. “What do you want, Arnold?”
    â€œOh, it’s a little bigger than that, Padre. I’m just an insignificant blip on history’s radar.”
    â€œMichael, we’re willing to negotiate,” Abby said. “But you are making that extremely difficult.”
    â€œThis isn’t a negotiation, Abby. It’s a wake-up call. You know, like the Russians putting up Sputnik. Whether it likes it or not, the world’s going to beat its swords into plowshares. Or else.”
    He walked back to the monster camel with the mouthful of slobbery six-inch fangs. He turned to King Paimon, and then jerked his head back toward