Seal of Solomon (Journeyman Book 2) by Golden Czermak

willingness to be ordered about by the likes of a werewolf, he took a satisfying gulp of the nighttime air and strode up to the front door. He did not knock and in a soundless instant, was inside.
    There he was met with the sight of garishly lavish wallpaper, lining a hall with nearly two dozen bronze frames of various sizes. Photos of a sickeningly happy newlywed couple smiled back.
    He didn’t venture too far from the foyer, choosing instead to head up the thin flight of stairs to the right. How fortunate for him that he only sensed one of them was home, passing by the pale night light on the landing. It was the husband, asleep in the master bedroom. He slid along the carpeted floor to the white door, wondering briefly if the wife was late home from the office or if the photos downstairs betrayed the reality that she was away at her mother’s due to an argument. Perhaps he was a cheater? That would be sinfully indulgent and karma being quite the bitch if the case.
    Ultimately, it did not matter. The door to the bedroom hung halfway open and light from the window beckoned him to enter. He didn’t waste any time doing so and in short time was walking silently through the room, so quiet he could have been floating through the surroundings. The room looked like the aftermath of several designer magazines mating, spawning the furniture and all associated trappings in an orgasmic heap. Astaroth was having a hard time deciding if it was pleasant or horrid, but it wouldn’t be much longer before it was all suitable for a demon.
    There, sprawled out in his boxers, was a snoring man in his early twenties. At first glance perhaps an engineer; that could explain such a young person living in such a well-to-do home. Regardless, Astaroth reached into his suit and pulled out a dagger.
    He slowly stepped right up to the head of the bed and looked down on his unsuspecting victim. He placed the blade just short of the man’s neck and in one swift motion pulled it across.
    “ Sanguinem ex inferno,” Astaroth whispered as the man gasped. The virgin white of the sheets became drenched in red, growing darker as more pooled behind him. He cupped his hands and held them beneath the man’s neck, allowing some of the warm liquid to collect.
    When the area was overflowing, he walked away from the bed, keeping the blood contained, and returned downstairs. He entered the living room and moved to the center, kicking over the kitsch coffee table to clear out enough space. Blinking, his human eyes shifted into their demon form while three sticks of dark wax and an old piece of parchment rose out of his pockets. They hovered just above his hands as he spoke demonically.
    “With these offerings I hereby will, by authority as Great Duke of Hell and servant to Lucifer the Grand King, that I may speak directly with Lord Dajjal without prying or hindrance. So sayeth the Covenants decreed in ages past.”
    The parchment promptly crumpled then burst into flame and the blood in his hands began to boil. The waxy nubs melted and floated to form Dajjal’s sigil, black and shining in the trembling light. Quickly, Astaroth tossed the steaming blood into the air and the surroundings quaked, groaning under immense forces.
    There was a sudden rush of searing heat. Astaroth raised his arm and with a loud snap , an ornate shield had appeared out of the boiling air to protect him. The room had gone from magazine-perfect to a scene of total destruction. The walls cracked and fell apart, the ceiling crumbled, and the furniture exploded into clouds of wood and fabric. The debris circled as if caught up in a vortex before wholly combusting at the far end of the former living room.
    This was no ordinary fire, burning with all the hate and intensity of pure hellfire.
    Cautiously, Astaroth moved himself closer, inspecting the spinning cyclone of flame before kneeling. He stretched out an arm to each side and bowing his head, spoke softly, fortified with fear. “I have