"I must have some agreement from you."
"I don't bargain with you "
"Not good enough."
"I will never bargain with you, Belial. You should know that by now."
"Afraid I might beat you, eh?"
The Heavens were silent.
"Oh, all right!" the Tempter pouted. "But you have to give me something to seal the bargain."
"I told you, Hooved-One: I do not bargain with you. Your slyness with words will not work with me."
"What is so special about Balon; You can tell me that, at least."
The Heavens were again silent.
"Ah! Of course!" the Mephistophelian voice cracked. "I see. Balon. Yes. You rather like him, don't you? You don't have to reply—I know. Yes, while your pet, Michael, is out flitting about the heavens, you'd like Balon sitting with you, eh? You do like your pet dogs, don't you? Is Michael there now?"
The Heavens rumbled as the archangel voiced his objection to being called a dog.
Satan laughed, and lightning licked across the sky. "Turn your militant maverick loose, Thunderer; let him face me. Let us see if his powers are as great as mine."
That was the wrong thing for the Dark One to suggest.
The Heavens were calm, even while Satan howled and cursed and called down malisons on all the residents of the firmament. He received no reply.
That enraged the ruler of filth. Satan fired his thoughts into the head of Jean Zagone. "You have sampled nearly all the men around you, bitch!" he said, still smarting from his conversation with the Holy One. "Pick five of the most virile and have them ready to receive Balon's pious whore."
And on the Zagone ranch, on the plains, the dancing began, preparatory to the Friday night sacrifice. The Coven members danced lewdly, hunching obscenely as they shouted filth to the Heavens. They were not afraid in their vocal and physical defilements, for the Prince of Evil had assured them his protection; guaranteed them a long and lustful life on earth.
These Coven members, these worshipers of Darkness, these students of Bell, Book, and Candle … they had made any number of mistakes in their evil lives. But paramount among them was believing anything the Devil said, while forgetting that the one True God is a vengeful God.
EIGHT
"Let's see how far our thoughts will carry," Sam suggested. "We'd better know, 'cause I think things are going to get down to the nut-cuttin' pretty quick."
"I do love your expressions, Sam," Nydia said, smiling. "I wonder if your father used the same colloquialisms? Bearing in mind he was a minister."
"Probably so. Mother often said he was a real character. Would speak his mind whenever and wherever."
"And yet, he has God's favor. I don't understand that. From what little I know of God's Word, I always thought of Christians as rather meek and mild types."
"Oh, I think that's a dangerous misconception, Nydia. God loves His warriors. I think Michael sits at God's side. Some even think he is God's bodyguard. Others think of him as the hand of retribution."
She glanced at him, thinking: Yes, I believe God does love His warriors.
They separated in the timber, walking first a few hundred yards apart, testing their ability to project and receive thoughts. They found that distance did make a difference in the receiving and sending.
"Let's go see this circle of stones," Sam said.
"What if we run into Black and Susan?"
He grinned at her, thinking how beautiful she was in the light filtering through the timber. "We'll just ask them how it was."
She playfully pushed him away. "Sam, you're impossible."
But the circle of stones was deserted when they got there. They looked for Black and Susan, finding only the still-pressed-down blanket of pine needles where they had lain.
Sam kneeled down, studying closely the stones of the huge circle; he studied with great interest the largest stone, which depicted scenes of great depravity: of men with huge jutting phalluses; of women with their legs spread wide, exposing the genitalia; scenes of mass orgies: men with men, women with women, men with small children; scenes of hideous torture; of grotesque creatures, monsters, leaping and snarling. And finally, on the east side of the boulder, a scene depicting a saintly looking man who was locked in some sort of combat with a beastly appearing creature.
Sam looked up from his studying. "You didn't tell me about this."
Her face was pale. "That was … never there before, Sam. I mean, the rocks, yes, but not all those carvings."
"Nydia …" he let his statement drift away. "No … I imagine the carvings were always here; you just couldn't see them. They are probably exposed only when Satan wants them to be." And how do you know all that? he silently questioned his mind.
"Or when he is near," she said tightly.
"Yes." Sam rose from his squat position and put his arms around her. She was trembling.
"I'm scared, Sam. For the first time, I'm really frightened. Now I know what you meant when you said you didn't know what to do—where to start."
Sam comforted her as best he could, for he, too, was frightened. "Come on. Let's see this hole in the ground."
They smelled the stench long before they came to the hole, both their noses wrinkling at the foul odor. "Can you imagine what it's like deep in that hole?" Sam tried a grin, unaware that his father had said almost the same thing to a couple of friends back in '58, standing near The Digging.
"Gross!" Nydia said. She watched as Sam reached into his jacket pocket. His face paled. He jerked his hand from the pocket as if he had touched a snake.
"What's wrong, Sam?"
His face regained a bit of color after his initial shock. "That . . . that's not my pistol in there."
"What!"
"I … thought just a moment ago, when I was kneeling down by that boulder there was too much weight in my pocket. But I shrugged it off. That's not a .38 revolver. That's an … automatic."
"Let's see, Sam."
He looked at her for a long moment and then put his hand into his jacket pocket. With his hand still in his pocket, he said, "Oh, my God!"
"Sam!"
He pulled out his hand, the hand containing three fully loaded clips for a .45 automatic pistol.
"What kind of gun did your father carry … back in Whitfield?"
"I don't know."
"Take out the pistol, Sam."
The young man hesitantly put his hand back into his pocket, gingerly pulling out the big automatic. He checked it. A full clip in the butt. He turned the weapon and saw a brass nameplate embedded and riveted into the handle. SGT SAM BALON KOREA 1953
"It's … it belonged to my father," he choked out the words, holding the weapon out for Nydia to see the brass plate in the grip.
She put a hand to her mouth, her face pale with shock.
"Something else just popped into my head," Sam said. "Wade Thomas told me one time my father sure could use a Thompson submachine gun. My mother gave him a look that would have fried eggs."
"What's a Thompson submachine gun?"
"An old-type tommy gun. Like the gangsters used to use.
"Are they any good?"
Sam smiled. "Up to about a hundred yards. If a Thompson won't stop what's coming at you, honey, with those big old slugs, it just isn't going to be stopped. I would love to have one of them."
"Have you ever fired one?"
"No, but it wouldn't take me long to learn." He looked at the pistol again. Somehow, and he could not shake the feeling, the weapon felt natural in his hand, almost as if he had held it before.
"What are you thinking, Sam?" Although she knew his thoughts.
He told her.
"Maybe that's what your father wants you to feel?"
"Yeah," he said softly.
A sudden sensation of being pulled into a dark force field enveloped them. "Sam!" Nydia cried, taking his hand. "What's happening?"
"Hang on! I don't know."
They sank to the ground. And they wer
e speechless, immobile as the strange force took control.
Time took them mentally winging into darkness, spinning them wildly through multicolors. They watched a naked man fighting with a naked woman. The faces were blurred, but both Sam and Nydia knew who they were: Sam Balon and Roma.
Articles of clothing and pieces of equipment flew about the struggling couple, sailing in a slow circle. The man struck the woman with his fist, and her head snapped back, blood spurting from a suddenly crimson mouth. She slapped him, the force of the open-hand pop turning him in somersaults. He kicked out with a bare foot and she grabbed his ankle, her hand working upward to grasp his erect penis. She hunched and impaled herself on the phallus, howling with dark laughter.
He smashed a fist against her jaw and she slumped, the man pushing her from his penis. She flew at him, fighting him. He was growing weaker. Again and again she mounted his maleness, only to have him shove her away, each shove less forceful than the preceding one.
Then, shrieking her taunting laughter, she lunged at him and wailed her delight as the phallus drove to the inner depths of her. For what seemed like hours the couple fucked their way across trackless worlds of time, always in a slow circle, until their combined juices were leaking from her lathered cunt, leaving a trail as bright as the Milky Way.
The young couple, frozen in voyeurism, earth-locked, could see the man was nearly dead.
With one last supreme burst of courage and strength, the man threw out his arm, snagging something out of the maze of clothing and equipment that encircled the couple. The objects seemed to fire from his hand, through the years, straight toward the young man and woman sitting on the ground in Canada.
Nydia screamed.
Sam ducked.
They both jumped to their feet, looking around them. All was still and peaceful. Sam looked at the gun in his hand.
"He threw the gun at you," Nydia whispered. "And something else. But . . . how?"
"I think when we finally learn that, Nydia … we'll be dead."
"You know now what you have to do at Falcon House, don't you?" she asked him.
"I think I've known all along."
"It's Miles," Jane Ann said. "He wants to know how come the phones are still working when everybody else's don't?"
"They don't work in Whitfield," Balon replied.
"He says then maybe you would be so kind as to explain how it is he is talking with me on the telephone this very minute?"
"Tell him to think about it. The answer will come to him."
She relayed the message, then stood listening for a few seconds. She laughed. "He says he understands. He really doesn't, he said. But to please you, he says he does."
"Hang up the phone and come over here and sit on the couch," Balon said.
When she was seated in front of the only man she had ever loved, she smiled at the misty face and said, "All right, Sam."
"I will be able to protect you through most of what will occur during the coming days. But … in the end it will have to be your strength and courage that see you through."
"Can you tell me why?"
"Not yet. Most of it you will be able to guess. After … all is done, then you will know."
She smiled. "I love question and answer games."
"None of this is amusing, Jane Ann!" Balon fired the thought at her with such intensity it caused her head to ache. "Sorry," he said. "But enough is enough. Miles is treating this as some sort of comedy burlesque; Wade is his usual smart-ass reporter self."
"Sam! Angels aren't supposed to talk like that."
"I'm not an angel. Even if I were, it wouldn't make any difference. Michael has been known to loose some oaths that caused tidal waves."
"Do you two get along? You and Michael?"
Silence greeted her.
"Sorry," she muttered. "Conversing with the spirit world is not something I do every day, you know."
"There you go again, being flip. I can't seem to get through to you—any of you—the horror that is beginning … for all of you."
"Don't you think we know, Sam? We lived through it once."
"But none of you will live through this. None of you. And your death, Jane Ann, is not going to be pleasant."
"I realize that, Sam. Last night I prayed for help."
"I heard you."
"Did He?"
"I am sure He did."
"You don't know!"
Silence.
"All right. Knowing Jean Zagone, I'm sure whatever is in store for me will be of a sexual nature."
The mist projected no reply.
"Rape, I'm sure."
Silence.
"Am I to be served up for the Black Mass?"
The mist gave no clue. Balon's unblinking eyes could not be read.
And then she knew what was in store for her; the culmination of the awfulness preceding the final hours of hideousness. She put her hands over her face and wept.
Balon could do nothing except silently watch, and invisibly weep with her.
A gentle rain began to fall over Whitfield.
Sam jacked a round into the automatic, eased the hammer down, and shoved it behind his belt. He glanced at Nydia. "Let's go see this hole in the ground. See the Beasts."
She grabbed his arm. "Why did you say Beasts?"
"Because I know, now, that's what they are. I don't know how I know. But they are the Devil's Beasts. My dad fought them—or some like them—in Fork. And now I know for certain I have been tapped—chosen, if you will—to pick up where Dad left off. Just another part of the country, that's all."
"And Roma, Falcon, Black … all those at the house?" she asked, almost running to keep pace with his long stride.
"I have to kill them," Sam said.
"Or try," she was forced to add.
"Yes."
"You won't run?"
"No."
Then they were at the hole in the earth, the ungodly fumes pouring from the blackness hundreds of feet deep almost making them physically ill.
"Bastards," Sam said, his voice low and powerful. "I know you're in there."
A growl ripped from the darkness and the stench to touch them.
Sam tossed his jacket to the ground, opening his shirt, exposing the angry red cross burned into his skin. The growling intensified, becoming louder as others joined in, swelling the howling and snarling to a fever pitch.
Sam pulled the .45 from his belt. "Why don't you come out?" he challenged them. "Let the light touch you?"
But nothing appeared at the mouth of the stinking lair of the Beasts. Only more howling and snarling sprang from the filthy cave.
Sam ignored the tugging at his sleeve. Nydia was so frightened she was trembling.
"Come up," Sam said. "Let me see you. Show me your evil red eyes." How did I know their eyes were red?
And one Beast did just that. A young Beast who lacked the caution of age leaped forward, just a few feet from the cave opening. It roared at the tall young man, its breath stinking. Sam shot it between the eyes, then stood smiling as the dead creature tumbled backward, falling with a boneless thud onto the first level of the many-tiered burrow. It would not be wasted: its relatives would feast on the cooling flesh and still-warm blood, sucking the marrow from the bones.
"One less," Sam said, then spat contemptuously on the ground, unaware his father had done and said the same thing years before, 1,500 miles to the west.
This time Sam allowed Nydia to pull him away from the rancid hole, leading him toward the house.
After the young couple had gone, a huge old Beast stuck his head out of the den. He had been on this earth for many years, hundreds of years, and had lived through purge after purge from both humans and the elements. He was old and he was wise, as Beasts go. He shook his great scarred head and snarled deep in his chest. He had never known a human without fear of his kind.
Until now.
And that primal sense of warning struck a resonant cord within his tiny brain. The Beast did n
ot know he was evil; his brain could not distinguish between good and evil. He served his god because … well, it was the thing to do. He did not have the intelligence to question right or wrong. But he did understand courage … and something else: fear. And what he now felt was fear, and he did not understand why.
Growling, the Beast slipped back into the earth. He must warn the others of this human; tell them to stay away. For this human was not like the other humans. This human had been touched by the Other Side. And the Beast feared the Other Side.
Black and Susan spun around as the echo of the shot drifted through the timber.
"That was close," Susan said.
But Black would only smile.
In Falcon House, Roma studied Falcon as the man stood speaking with Lana. He could be so charming. She wondered how long it would take him to get the panties off the little blond? Not long, if she knew Falcon, and she did. She would like to be there when he spread her legs and filled her with that enormous erection. Roma liked to hear screaming.
A thin line of perspiration broke from the skin on her upper lip at just the thought of sex. Damn that young man! She couldn't get him out of her mind. Roma knew, with a mother's sixth sense, that Nydia had slept with Balon's bastard … which was fine … no harm in that. But what Roma did not want was some puky little holy child to spring from the mating. That would be the height of humiliation.
A door slammed, and Roma looked around as Black and Susan strolled in. The girl looked rumpled. So her son had made it with the cunt. That was good. Better than his usual tastes: boys. Although the Master did not object to his subjects engaging in sex with the same gender. Roma noticed Susan now wore the medallion of the Master outside her shirt. Very good, Black. Falcon will want to sample her wares as well. How nice of you to break in a new pussy for him. She watched Susan touch her son's arm, smile up at him, then walk toward the steps to her quarters. Black came to his mother's side.
"All went well, I see."
"Very well. Mother. But we did hear a shot a few moments ago."
"Oh?"
"Yes. Seemed to come from around the circle."
"Of course, Sam would be armed. He is his father's son. Any ideas as to what prompted the gunfire?"
"He probably fired at a Beast."
'They would not have attacked with Nydia present." A frown creased her brow. "Unless …" she let the unimaginable trail off.
The Devil's Heart Page 10