Free Powers by James A. Burton Page A

enough to fit the legends. But then, he knew he was biased.
    Solomon’s Seal? Capitalized? Yeah, that iron felt as old as Solomon. The legends he knew, though, said Solomon’s Seal was a ring. A signet ring, the kind you used to seal letters and royal decrees, maybe with magic bound in it. Twist the ring on his finger, a djinn appeared to do the great king’s bidding.
    English was a slippery language—seals could be many things. He didn’t think the star ate fish, for one . . .
    But the star had told him it sealed the way. Another meaning of the word, something that closes, like the seal on a jar or can. Closing out nasty germs from food, closing out those hungry spots of light.
    Mother liked to be vague, confuse people with double-meaning words. When she didn’t want to lie outright. Sort of like a demon, that way.
    The star—the Seal— called to him, wanted him to fix it. And Legion had led . . . forced . . . him to find it . . .
    Maybe Solomon had made more than one Seal.
    He stared at the feather. He still had no way of knowing if it or the message really came from her. He walked around the table, not touching it, and it looked pretty much like a pheasant feather from all sides. He’d sort of hoped it would go away or turn into an asp or something.
    Then he walked through the apartment, checking the closets and the little tell-tales he left on various secret ways and false walls. All undisturbed—a clump of lint here, a hair across a crack there, dust that would show the sweep of a door. The place was untouched, with no evidence of entry except the presence of the feather—empty. Shame, that, a little heart-to-heart talk wouldn’t have hurt. At least the demon’s gold still sat in his hideaway behind the plumbing. He wasn’t naïve enough to think she wouldn’t have found it if she looked. Mother was always death on secrets—other people’s secrets, that is, she kept her own locked tight.
    He didn’t know whether she’d cared to look. Or if the feather came from someone—some thing —else, that didn’t know every little twist and quirk about her.
    A bit of a love-hate relationship, the way he felt about Mother, and he knew it. Dominant personality, somewhat like those gods he despised, she’d make you pay if you crossed her even in small things. Could be petty and vindictive, with a long memory for real or imagined slights. Living under the same roof didn’t appeal to him much. He felt some level of relief along with the frustration when he didn’t find her anywhere.
    He grabbed a beer and thawed a chunk of venison chili for lunch, not enough energy left for cooking or even building a decent sandwich. Plus, the rye bread had gone stale with his lost days, and he didn’t have the energy or patience for baking fresh.
    He always kept some good food frozen—the mere thought of canned pasta made him shudder, but sometimes he needed fast and easy calories. Likewise with the music, some Tallis a-cappella choral motets he knew he could trust to soothe his aching brow. He tended to say a lot of rude things about religion here and there, but he couldn’t deny that faith had inspired a lot of lovely music. Other great arts, too, but music was his peculiar vice.
    Then he collapsed into bed, the past few days claiming their toll. At least this time he had enough energy to undress first.
    A sense-memory nagged at him in the gray drift between waking and sleeping. Sandalwood. When he held the Seal, he’d smelled sandalwood, stronger, as if he sensed it through his fingertips rather than his nose. Was the salamander trapped in that iron, somehow? Like so much else in this confusion, it made no sense . . .
    He woke in darkness, his head ringing from the wall he felt against his left ear. He seemed to be sitting on the floor, in a corner. He felt hot blood trickle down his cheek. Light blazed in his eyes—the same bluish dazzle he remembered from that night in the burned-out synagogue. He blinked