Janet again looked at the child. She thought: If it is determined that you are not one of us, but a spawn of them—I am going to kill you.
SEVEN
"Princess," the young woman was addressed. "We have word that the Christians are massing. They are few, yes, but Sam Balon's offspring is among them. As well as the turncoat, Nydia."
The young woman with the long brown hair and pale eyes looked at her servant. She was tall, with a magnificent figure. Very stately and very regal appearing. She was Satan's child. The daughter of the Devil. A demon. She served only the Black Master of evil. Her father: Satan. She had burst forth from her mother's womb in a shower of blood and torn flesh. Roma the witch had died this earthly life giving birth to her. The young woman looked to be about twenty years of age.
By earth time, she was three years old. She had been born on the sixth day of the sixth month, at precisely the sixth minute of Roma's pregnancy. At precisely the exact moment Little Sam was birthed. They were half brother and sister.
But this child was as old as evil—by the hands of the clock that served the Dark One.
"We have the time to delay," the Princess instructed the gathering at Giddon Estate. "As much time as is needed. My father has put us on no firm timetable. But this time you shall not fail him. The Christians are no matter. Masses have been held at this place for over a hundred years. And tonight shall be no different. We shall honor my father—your Master, the King of Darkness—tonight."
"Yes, Princess. As you command." Professor Frank Gilbert bowed and scurried away.
The lovely young woman smiled in the candlelit gloom of the large room. Her teeth were, for a moment, fanged. She allowed herself the heady pleasure of thinking of Sam Balon for a time. Her mother had left her own images in her demon child: the images of the woman Sam Balon, Sr. knew as Nydia; Sam Balon, Jr. knew as Roma. They were one and the same. The Balons, father and son, were lusty men, well-endowed, and the Princess planned to sample the wares of Sam Balon. And while she was sampling, she would gently introduce Sam into the dark pleasures of her Master. One little bite with her very sharp teeth, and the one obstacle toward her Master's ruling this area would be removed. Then they could move on to greater things. The entire state. The United States. The world!
"Not too fast, my pretty," the voice came to her. The room began to stink of hell. The candles flickered as if in fear. Rain lashed the mansion.
"Father," the Princess said softly.
"It is one thing to be ambitious, dear. Quite another to be foolishly reckless."
"I did not know—was not aware you were so close."
"Yes. I came because I am quite sure my old adversary will stick His goody-two-shoes nose into this affair and fuck it all up. As He is prone to do."
The Princess giggled.
"It is no laughing matter, my pretty," the heavy voice returned her to sobriety rudely. "Your mother died this earthly life birthing you; a gift to me. And don't think for a moment that meddlesome old fart up in the firmament wasn't plenty pissed off about your mother seducing Sam. He claimed I broke the rules—not so. I just interpreted them differently, that's all. So we are going to slow the timetable, my precious. We are going to take it nice and easy and slow, and we are not going to rock any boats this time. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Father."
"As long as you do. Now I am going to have some more fun. It's been entirely too long since I visited this planet personally. And keep your legs together, you horny bitch. You must save your virginity for Sam Balon. In that respect, you are just too goddamned much like your mother. Oh, what a coup it would be if you could birth Balon's child." The wind picked up as dark laughter howled in the huge room.
When the howling had stopped, the Princess asked, "And how is Mother?"
"Well. Bitchy, as usual. But that is to be expected of her. She is ruling an upper level on another planet."
"Black?"
"Which Black?" the voice sounded testy.
"Wilder."
"Oh. He's doing quite well. He is teaching new recruits. A fine and loyal man. But your idiot half-brother is the most useless, whining, malcontented son-of-a-bitch I have encountered since Nero. And that silly shit still fancies himself a poet and painter."
"My half-brother a poet?"
"Oh, no! Nero!"
The Princess hung her head in penance. "Forgive me, Father."
"Oh, stop groveling and get on with matters. And Princess, don't fail me."
A stinking wind blew through the great house by the river. The candles went out, plunging the room into darkness. The Beasts on the grounds below the mansion shook with fear.
And far away, in the firmament, a star twinkled a bit more brightly than usual.
"I left my wife out of this," Joe said, after he had been seated in the Draper's den. "She's not well, and I don't believe she could take anything like this. I don't know whether I'm gonna be able to take it."
"She's not recovering from her operation?" Monty asked.
"No. The doctors always say they got it all—but they didn't, and Nellie knows it. She's dying little by little. Sad thing to have to watch."
And the wind that was hovering silently over the Draper house, carrying within it a foul odor, seemed to sigh and say, "Well, now—how interesting."
The dark mass disappeared into the night.
Father Le Moyne shivered suddenly. His skin felt clammy, as if something slimy had touched bare flesh. He drew a nervous breath. "Was I the only one to hear something just then? Outside, I mean."
"I—thought I heard something," Monty said.
His wife put her hand in his. "I heard something too, honey. It sounded like words."
He looked at her pale face. Lifted his eyes to the others. "I told her all I knew. I don't think she believed me."
There was an amused look in the woman's eyes. "I have a birthday next week. My husband knows 1 like horror books and movies. You people fixed all this up, didn't you? Even got the priest in on it."
Sam looked at the woman. "Viv, we have no reason to lie. None of us. But if we don't panic, I think we can beat this."
Viv laughed. "Oh, you people! Come on. Monty fixed all this up, admit it. You people have someone outside, whispering, don't you?"
"No, Vivian," Father Le Moyne said. "I would have nothing to do with a joke this grotesque. Satan is anything but a joking matter."
Viv shifted her gaze from person to person, touching all eyes, finally settling on Nydia. She saw only seriousness in those dark gypsy eyes. Joe had seemed tense and upset. Father Le Moyne wore lines of fatigue around his eyes. Monty wore a haunted look.
"It isn't a joke," Viv whispered. "You people really believe the Devil is here in Logandale."
"Believe it, Vivian," the priest said. "It is no joke, I assure you of that."
Viv released her husband's hand. She stood up, and Sam could not help viewing her with a man's appreciative eyes. Viv was tall, almost willowy. Sam had heard she had been a fashion model in New York City. He believed it. Her hair was a golden color, her figure slightly fuller than the average model, with none of the gauntness associated with that profession. She was a woman who could turn men's heads. Sam guessed her age at thirty. She had the trimness and vitality about her of a woman ten years younger.
"I don't believe in the Devil," Viv said.
"I have a feeling," Nydia said, looking at the woman, "that will change during the next few days."
Viv tossed her golden hair. "Bull!" she said.
The phone rang. Monty stilled the jangling. He listened for a few moments, acknowledged the call, and hung up. His face registered his shock and disbelief. "The paramedics who were here this morning, those men who picked up the body of Marie Fowler and who were later found dead," he spoke to Joe. "Their bodies have disappeared from Clark County General. And the assistant M.E. is missing."
"Drop the other shoe, Chief," Joe said.
"After being shown pictures of the two men, a floor
nurse claims she saw the men walking out of the hospital, pushing a gurney with a man—or at least a body—on it. She swears it was the two paramedics. Said they lurched rather than walked, and their eyes were odd."
Viv gasped once and fainted. Sam got to her before her head banged against the floor.
Nellie Bennett lay on the couch in the den, her eyes looking at but not registering the scenes on the TV screen. She was thinking about Joe. Ol' hard luck Joe, she thought. Had a bad time with his wives. His first wife ran off and left him, taking the kids. Joe had no idea where she was; hadn't seen her or the kids in twenty years. His second wife drops dead of a heart attack right in front of his eyes, playing bridge, and now I'm dying.
Nellie was much younger than Joe, almost fifteen years younger. And before the ravages of cancer began eating on her, she was a very attractive woman. She knew she was and had to smile despite the pain in her stomach. Joe looked like a mournful old hound dog, but he could somehow attract good-looking women. And for a man in his fifties, Joe could still make the mattress jump when the lights went out.
She felt sorry for Joe. She just hadn't felt like sex in more than a year. She wouldn't have blamed him if he'd bedded down another woman. Not at all.
Having thought that, she could swear she heard a voice say something like, "Ummm."
She looked around her. No, it had been her imagination.
She rose painfully from the couch and took another pain pill. Lately, the pills seemed to lose their effectiveness She took another pill and returned to the couch. She was asleep in moments.
"Nellie," the voice whispered to her.
She stirred on the couch.
Her nose wrinkled at the sudden and thick smell that seemed to permeate the den. In her sleep, the smell was scented, but the scent only covered the real odor of burning sulphur.
In her drug-induced sleep, she thought she felt a hand lifting her gown. She thought it was Joe and she mumbled irritably. But the hand persisted. She felt its warmth—almost hot—on the bare flesh of her lower belly.
Then the hand withdrew and for the first time in months, she was free of pain.
She stretched until her bones popped and creaked, something she had been unable to do in months because of the pain it caused. It was a luxurious feeling.
"Isn't that nice, Nellie?" the dark-sounding voice entered her head.
"Oh, my, yes," she murmured.
"As compared to this."
Intense pain doubled her up on the couch. The pain was so hot and hard she cried out. It was more pain than she had ever experienced.
As quickly as the nightmarish anguish struck, it stopped, leaving her body. She sighed with relief. Sweat dotted her face and body.
"That's ever so much better, isn't it, darling?" the voice asked.
"Yes," she murmured. The harshness of the agony had dulled the effects of the drugs in her system. She was in a state of semiconsciousness.
"How would you like to live forever, forever free of pain?"
She giggled, enjoying her dream.
"Would you like that, Nellie?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"And you would give anything for that privilege?"
"Yes."
"Anything, Nellie?"
"Yes."
"Well," the voice held a smugness. "I think we are going to get along just fine, Nellie. Oh, my, yes."
"I don't like this place, Jon," Patsy said, holding very tightly to his hand. "It's spooky."
The young couple stood several hundred yards from the Giddon mansion, looming dark in the wet night. Not one light shone through the thin drizzle.
"It'll be all right," Jon assured her. But he was not that sure himself.
"Do not be afraid," the mysterious voice once more spoke to him. "I can assure you that soon you will have all that you have dreamed of."
Patsy stood as if in a trance. She was hearing none of the conversation.
"And Patsy?" Jon asked. "What about her?"
"She had her dreams as well, young man. She combated them, but they were there. Soon she will have them fulfilled."
"When do we go in?"
"Now," the voice said, then faded.
"Let's go," Patsy said. "I'm ready."
The heavy iron gates leading to the curving driveway opened as the young couple approached them. Neither Jon nor Patsy questioned how the gates opened, even though no one could be seen nearby. As they walked up the drive, they were conscious of red eyes watching them from the gloom on the wet hedges and shrubbery on both sides of the concrete. They were aware of a foul odor surrounding them, but somehow the odor never left the grounds of the estate. They did not know how that could be, but they did not question it.
They looked back only once, as the massive gates closed behind them. They heard the snick of a lock. It was as if they had entered another world, another time, another land, cut off from the outside. They could not see past the gates.
The huge oak and iron doors to the mansion swung open. Norman Giddon stood smiling at the boy and girl. The man was dressed in black robes.
"Welcome," he said. "Welcome and enter the kingdom of the Prince of Darkness. Welcome and embrace your new life."
Jon and Patsy stepped inside.
The doors closed behind them.
Patsy clutched at his arm.
Jon felt his heart pound with fear at the dark, hooded shapes gathered in the candlelit room.
The dark shapes moved toward the young couple.
"How's your wife?" Sam asked.
"She's awake," Monty replied. "She apologizes for fainting; she really isn't the fainting type. But I think all this finally got to her. Let's get down to it, people. What in the hell are we going to do?"
"Interesting choice of words," Father Le Moyne muttered. "Very apt."
"Let's count down our options," Joe said. "Assuming all this is true, and I guess it is. One: if we call in help—even if we were believed and not put in the cuckoo house—what would these—people do?"
"Sit back and wait," Sam spoke without hesitation. He wondered how he knew that. But he had experienced message after message from higher powers before, and he had learned not to question, just obey.
"Why?" Monty asked.
This time it was Father Le Moyne who replied. "I think what Sam is saying is this: Those who practice the black arts are in no hurry. They can wait us out."
"And bear in mind this is a game to Satan," Nydia said.
"You reckon we could get the Raiders in here to give us a hand?" Joe tried a joke. When the obligatory smiles had faded, Joe said, "Two: Who do we trust?"
"No one," Sam said quickly and firmly. "Both Nydia and myself have had experience with these types of people, and we can tell you to trust no one. Be suspicious of everyone, but don't be overt with your suspicions. Let them think everything is all right. And keep this in mind: We are going to be far outnumbered.
Joe counted it down. "Three: What do we do?"
"I can't speak for anyone else," the priest said. "But I am going to contact all the ministers in this town. I won't mention what we know is happening, but I want to see if they have sensed it, or are a part of it." He crossed himself at the conclusion of that last remark.
Nydia said, "Look for sudden changes in personal appearance, like Joe mentioned, the way many people smell bad now. Many times coven members will forsake cleanliness, for Satan is known as the Prince of Filth, remember. Look for the numbers six-six-six. Look for a cross placed upside down. And few true Satan worshippers can bear to look at a cross. Other than that, there is little more I can tell you. Just be very careful."
"We'll know what to do after they make the first move," Sam said. "We can't do much until we see if this is going to be a war of nerves or of violence."
"A war," Monty said. "It sounds like we're planning a war."
"We are," Father Le Moyne said. "And more than our lives are at stake. We stand a good chance of losing our souls.'
EIGHT
<
br /> Will Gibson stood in the darkness of his hardware store. He was so thirsty he was weak and trembling. He knew he had to appease his new thirst; knew his body would not be satisfied with anything other than the hot salty taste of human blood. But some inner communication with the forces of darkness warned him that he must not kill—not yet. It wasn't time. Will could not explain how he knew that. He just knew.
He watched as that rich bitch Xaviere Flaubert drove past. Looked like she came from the direction of the Giddon house. Will watched her fancy car fade into the misty night.
He stepped out of the darkened store and stood in the stoop, shrouded in night. He heard the tap-tapping of a woman's high-heeled boots coming down the sidewalk. His heart quickened, his pulse hammering in his throat. He stepped out of the shadows just before the woman reached the edge of his storefront showcase window. The woman stopped, jerked with fright, put a hand to her throat, and then grinned when she saw who it was.
"Hi, Mr. Gibson," she said. "You really scared me for a second."
"I'm sorry," Will said, returning the smile. His teeth flashed very white in the gloom of the damp night. "I didn't mean to startle you, Judy."
Judy Parish, oldest daughter of Deputy Vernon Parish, looked up at the man. Her yellow hair caught the mist and bounced back shards of light. Judy had graduated high school that year and now was employed as a cashier in a local supermarket. Lovely young thing, with blue eyes and fair skin. She had that month moved away from her abusive father into a small apartment of her own.
The cold rain suddenly picked up in intensity and Judy ducked into the stoop, standing close to the man.
"You can't walk all the way to your apartment in this weather," Will said. "It's turning colder and you'll catch your death. Let me give you a lift."
She hesitated, looking at the man. Then she made her decision. Will Gibson was known as a good church-going man. A member of the Logandale Baptist Church. Sang in the choir. It was rumored that he and Miss Judith Mayberry were to be married. So it would be safe to accept a ride from Mr. Gibson.
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