Halo of Brimstone Read online

  Halo of Brimstone

  The Kingdom Wars series

  Hideous Beauty

  Heavenly Mortal

  Halo of Brimstone

  HALO OF BRIMSTONE

  KINGDOM WARS SERIES

  BOOK THREE

  JACK CAVANAUGH

  Halo of Brimstone: Book 3 of the Kingdom Wars series

  Copyright © 2019 by Jack Cavanaugh

  Published by Enclave Publishing, an imprint of Third Day Books, LLC

  Phoenix, Arizona, USA.

  www.enclavepublishing.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, digitally stored, or transmitted in any form without written permission from Third Day Books, LLC.

  Most scripture quotations are taken from The Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com. The “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark office by Biblica, Inc.®

  Other scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-62184-075-6 (printed softcover)

  ISBN: 978-1-68370-206-1 (ebook)

  Kindle Edition

  Cover design by Kirk DouPonce, www.DogEaredDesign.com

  Interior typesetting by Jamie Foley

  To Luke, Lily, and Calvin.

  Can’t wait until you’re old enough to read Kingdom Wars.

  Table of Contents

  Half-Title

  The Kingdom Wars series

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  About the Author

  Off the Coast of Israel

  The storm pounced without warning. One minute the fishing trawler was scudding along under clear night skies; and the next, pummeled by fierce winds and high seas beneath churning black clouds.

  In the wheelhouse, Captain Yagil Dahan gripped the padded armrests of his skipper’s chair. He stared at the panel of instruments—navigation, communications, fish detection, and trawl sensors. While he’d come to check the trawling sensor, it was the weather radar that occupied his attention. The instrument showed no indication of clouds or wind, let alone a storm.

  Dahan rubbed his bearded chin that showed a disturbing amount of gray. “I’m getting too old for this,” he said.

  Yagil Dahan had inherited the twin trawlers DAVID and BATHSHEBA from his father when he was thirty-nine years old, and for nearly three decades had managed to put food on the table for his wife and son and two daughters. But these last three years the family fishing business had struggled to stay afloat.

  An increasing number of corporations with larger boats and modern equipment were mercilessly cutting into his profits. Then a month ago, the Department of Fisheries had enacted new conservation fishing bans that would limit the number of months he could work. But the worst blow came last week when the DAVID’s engine gave up the ghost and had to be towed to port. He didn’t have the money to repair it and he was down to one ship. And now he was going to have to replace BATHSHEBA’s weather radar. How was he going to do that and pay the crew?

  Already he’d lost four seasoned crew members to the corporations. “Sorry, Yagil,” the departing crew members said, “but the bigger boats are offering more money and benefits, and a man’s got to take care of his family, no?”

  Which left him with what? Zalel, his wife’s good-for-nothing younger brother. The man never did an honest day’s work in his life and was most recently fired from a government job. A government job! A corpse could hold a government job, but not Zalel. The man couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

  A self-professed expert on everything, all Zalel ever did was stand with his arms folded and tell people how they should do whatever it was they were doing. As a boy, he told women how to cook, mothers how to breastfeed, children how to play, and old men how to die; as an adult, he told his coworkers how to do their jobs, his employers how to run their businesses, his supervisors how to treat their workers, and political leaders how to run the country. It was his advice to a visiting female dignitary on how to get rid of unsightly facial hair that got him fired.

  “But he’s family,” Yagil’s wife insisted.

  This was Zalel’s first voyage aboard a fishing trawler and already there were murmurs about throwing him overboard. Crew members were taking bets on how long he’d be in the water before he started telling the fish how they should be swimming.

  The starboard side of the trawler heaved, and once again Yagil checked the weather radar screen.

  Clear skies. Light wind. Calm seas.

  Yagil cursed.

  “Papa! Papa! Come on deck!”

  There was an urgency in his son’s voice. Chaviv was the same age Yagil was when he took over the family fishing business.

  Yagil grabbed his tattered captain’s hat. Then, spurred by a sense of foreboding intuition, he opened a drawer, retrieved his handgun, and tucked it into his waistband.

  Emerging on deck, a gust of wind and salty spray knocked him back a step. The trawler’s mechanical winch clanked loudly as it pulled the night’s catch onboard.

  “Papa, you have to see this!” Chaviv shouted over the wind.

  He was pointing at the net.

  There, nestled among the grouper, cod, and yellow mouth barracuda was something smooth and round and definitely manmade. The winch ground to a halt. Under normal conditions the crew would be cutting the bottom of the net and spilling the catch into the hold. To the man, they watched the captain’s progress as he made his way along the port side under the eerie glow of ship’s lights.

  “Look, Papa,” Chaviv pointed at the net. “There. There. And there. Three of them.”

  The burnt-orange bulge of clay jars, ancient from the look of them, stood out among the restless mass of gray fish scales.

  “Treasure, Papa!” Chaviv said.

  Years of life experience—hammered and shaped by disappointment—kept Yagil’s emotions in check. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder. Could it be that his luck was about to change, that on this God-forsaken night good fortune would favor him?

  But treasure? He knew better. Israel was lousy with historical artifacts. You couldn’t plant a vegetable garden without digging up a thousand-year-old bone. Most often clay vessels such as these contained grain or wine residue, sometimes scrolls. And then there was always the Israel Antiquities Authori
ty. They were legendary for their strict punishments and severe fines for illegally excavated objects.

  Yagil knew fully well he was at a crossroad. His next decision could alter the course of his life, the future of his family, his business, his son. His responsible side told him to leave the jars untouched and hand them over to the authorities. His adventurous side, the side that counted the cost yet took risks, urged him to open the jars so that he knew what he was dealing with.

  “Let’s see what we’ve got,” he said. “Cut them out of there.”

  Chaviv grabbed his knife and sliced open the bottom of the net, a small opening to control the flow of fish as they spilled into the hold. As if floating down a silvery river, the jars slid toward the opening. Chaviv grabbed the first one with careful hands and passed it to a waiting crew member. He repeated the process until all three were on deck, each one steadied by a member of the crew.

  Yagil knelt to inspect the jars. They were sealed, and it appeared each seal was intact. The crew gathered around, eager to hear what their captain would say next.

  “Open one of them,” he ordered.

  Chaviv didn’t have to be told twice. He dropped to his knees, cradled the jar, and examined the sealed lid. He tested it with an exploratory cut and found the seal waxy.

  “Actually,” Zalel said, stepping forward, “instead of a knife, you should use a torch to melt the wax.”

  Yagil rolled his eyes with exasperation.

  “By melting the wax, you avoid scratching the—”

  “Shut up, Zalel,” Yagil snapped.

  Chaviv continued working his way around the rim methodically. When he had completely cut the circumference, he set the jar upright and leaned back. Opening it was the captain’s privilege.

  Yagil kneeled opposite his son.

  “I need some light,” he said.

  Several of the crew members were recording the event with their cell phones as best they could, given the tempestuous pitch and yaw of the deck. One of them swiped his screen and punched the flashlight icon. A bright light illuminated the top of the jar. Yagil positioned the man’s arm to shine the light where he wanted it.

  He looked at his son who was all smiles, then back at the jar. Wrapping an arm around the container, he gripped the lid and twisted. The wax seal, old from age, crumbled as the lid rotated.

  Yagil knew he’d broken the law the moment his son’s knife cut the artifact. Had he stopped then, he could have explained it away as an impulsive error and probably gotten no more than a stern lecture from the authorities. But once he opened the jar, he was without excuse. He could only hope that the contents of the jar would prove to be so valuable—monetarily, historically; it didn’t matter—that the authorities would overlook his indiscretion.

  He set his jaw and removed the lid.

  Leaning forward, he peered inside.

  The escaping presence hit him with such force it slammed his body against the ship’s gunwales, knocking the breath from his lungs.

  Free from the jar that imprisoned him, the demon Ashmedai found himself occupying a living container, and felt the body he was possessing fight instinctively for air. He let it. The man’s hands, shocked by the realization that something was inside him, tore at his clothing, clutched his face, his head. The struggle was of no concern to the demon.

  “Papa! Papa, are you all right?”

  Through the man’s eyes, Ashmedai saw a young male, his chin and cheeks heavy with black stubble, peering at him with frantic concern.

  “Chav—” the man tried to say.

  Ashmedai clutched the vocal chords, cutting off any further sound.

  While the man’s son, and others with him, hovered over their captain, Ashmedai fed off the life streaming through the body—the beating heart, the pumping blood, the stretch of muscles—and the sensation soothed him like the pleasurable scratch of a long persistent itch. The torment of being without a body melted away in luxurious satisfaction.

  The man’s struggle to regain control of the body was proving to be an annoyance, so with the practiced control that came from centuries of possessing humans, Ashmedai engaged in the struggle, ripping the man’s spirit with talon-like strokes, piercing his heart with razor thrusts. The blows were exquisitely painful to the man, the demon saw to that. The battle was brief. The man, though robust in body, was feeble in spirit and soon his will was broken.

  In total control of the body, Ashmedai sat up and opened his eyes.

  “Papa! What is wrong?”

  Ashmedai stood and looked around. He was aboard some kind of ship. Men encircled him. As they should. The sight of two more clay jars on the deck pleased him.

  “Open them,” he commanded.

  The man’s son hesitated, still concerned for his father.

  “Open them!” Ashmedai shouted.

  As he had done before, but this time with trembling hands, Chaviv cut the seal on the second jar and removed the lid.

  The man who was standing next to him recoiled as though hit by an invisible bludgeon, tugging violently at his clothes. The other crew members stepped back, alarmed.

  “The third jar. Open it!”

  His eyes wide with fright, Chaviv glanced imploringly at his father. “Papa, please. . . .”

  “Do as I say,” Ashmedai commanded.

  The third jar was opened. This time it was Chaviv who flew backward and writhed on the deck as the crew watched in horror. After a time, the writhing stopped. Chaviv and the other crew member stood before their captain.

  Ashmedai greeted them. “Ornasis. Lilith.”

  The two demon-possessed men took in their surroundings with wide eyes, particularly fascinated by the overhead torches affixed to the pilot house that gave light without flame.

  The spirit of the captain made a valiant effort to control his arm, reaching for a stiff object that was stuffed in his waistband. Yagil managed to grip the object. Curious, Ashmedai allowed him to pull it from the waistband, then seized control of the hand to see what had so emboldened his host. The object was hard, like a block of iron, but not sharp like a blade. The man wanted to press it against his temple. To what end?

  Show me, Ashmedai thought.

  The man resisted. Ashmedai squeezed the man’s heart. With his free hand, the man clutched at the pain in his chest.

  Once subdued, the man did as he was instructed. His index finger curled around a metal appendage and pulled.

  A loud CRACK! caused the crew members to jump, as a plank on the deck erupted with splinters.

  “It appears to spit some sort of dart,” Ornasis said from within Chaviv’s body.

  “Do it again,” Lilith said. She scanned the crew, her gaze falling on one of them. “At him.”

  Zalel recoiled at being singled out.

  Ashmedai leveled the blunt dagger that spit darts at the stammering crew member, curled his index finger around the metal appendage, and pulled.

  Zalel’s chest exploded with blood. He dropped to the deck as the other crew members scrambled for cover, some of them jumping overboard.

  Ashmedai grinned with wicked satisfaction as he sought out crew member after crew member, spitting darts at them until the quiver was empty. Ornasis and Lilith followed him with the expressions of children playing with a new toy. At one point, Ornasis attempted to grab the weapon from Ashmedai, who backhanded him and ordered him to remember his place.

  With the weapon no longer able to provide them with amusement, Ashmedai got down to the business at hand. As he questioned his host, two voices came from Yagil’s mouth.

  “Is Solomon still king?” Ashmedai asked.

  The question perplexed his host. Ashmedai tried a different approach.

  “Who is your king?”

  “We have no king,” Yagil replied.

  Not liking his answer, Ashmedai squeezed his heart until the captain pleaded with him to stop.

  “I will ask you again, who is your king?”

  “We. . . we have not had a king for
centuries. We have a prime minister now.”

  Another squeeze of the heart.

  “Please . . . I’m telling you the truth! The prime minister is like a king.”

  Placated by the answer, Ashmedai’s grip on the heart eased.

  “And what is your country?”

  “Israel.”

  Ashmedai exchanged glances with his cohorts. “This boat is an Israelite boat?

  “It is registered with the State of Israel,” the captain said.

  “State of Israel.” Ashmedai repeated the unfamiliar designation.

  A sense of fear welled up inside the captain’s body. Ashmedai gave it free rein, fear being a demon’s most useful tool.

  “Take us there,” he said to the captain.

  The man’s fear escalated to alarm.

  “Show me how to sail this boat.”

  The captain’s instincts took a stand.

  “You might as well kill me,” Yagil said, “because I will never surrender my boat to you.” He braced for the pain he knew would follow.

  It didn’t come.

  “I believe you,” Ashmedai said. “A captain and his ship, such a noble sentiment. But your misguided heroism leaves me with a dilemma. Do I kill you and persuade another? I think not. A captain should be at the helm of a ship when it enters port. So, where does that leave us?”

  Ashmedai turned the captain’s head toward his son. He spoke to the demon possessing him.

  “Ornasis, if you will.”

  Chaviv’s face contorted with pain. He dropped to the deck, writhing, tearing at his flesh, his eyes. Chaviv’s screams ripped at what was left of his father’s aching heart.

  “All right! I’ll do it!” the captain cried.

  “Ornasis, it appears our negotiations were successful,” Ashmedai said.

  Chaviv fell limp, wounded but still alive. At the sight of his bloodied son, Yagil wept.

  “Get control of yourself, captain,” Ashmedai said. To Ornasis and Lilith, he said, “Indulge yourselves.”

  Lilith was especially pleased with the order.

  “This body is disgusting,” she said, her arms wide to illustrate her point. Her sultry voice came from a hairy body with a belly extending far over the belt.