"Unless … what, Mother?"
"She became a Christian," Roma said sourly.
"If she did that, then that changes things considerably."
"Yes. But Sam Balon used to do the same thing back in Whitfield. Taunt the Beasts. No fear in either father or son." But still … could her daughter have been converted so quickly. It was possible. If so, Roma smiled, that opened up yet another can of wriggling worms, with more alternatives than ever.
Black looked at his mother. But unlike his mother, the young man was very familiar with fear. But he dared not tell her of that forbidden emotion, as forbidden as true love. She would be furious. Black had learned as a child how to keep his thoughts blocked from her.
But Roma picked up disturbing vibes from her son. "What's wrong, Black?"
Dark eyes met, held, with Black breaking off his gaze under her hard look. He shook his head. "Nothing, Mother." He hoped he sounded convincing enough.
He didn't. But Roma said nothing about it. "Black, we have but one mission here on earth, and nothing must stand in its way. Nothing. Do you understand that?"
"Yes, Mother."
Scheming little bastard, Roma thought. Now you've added lying. "Our Master wants more converts, more churches. It is a very daring move they are taking in Whitfield, so soon after failure. If all succeeds, it will mean an entire town—everyone—worshiping the Prince of Darkness. That hasn't happened here on earth in more years than even I can recall. Nothing must stand in our way.
"Yes, Mother. But why simultaneously? Why here and in Whitfield concurrently?"
"Balon, dear. Both of them."
"But Sam Balon is dead, Mother. He is of the Other Side. He cannot be killed again."
She took his arm and guided him into the study, motioning him to sit. "Black, understand something, dear: Balon is very close to being chosen by … Him." She gestured upward with a carefully manicured finger. "Chosen to sit with Him."
"God likes His warriors," Black said.
"That is correct. But we don't want that to happen."
"Why?"
Roma sighed. Sometimes she felt she had birthed an idiot. "If for no other reason, son, to humiliate Him. To show Him He is not infallible."
Her son nodded his head, narrowing his eyes. "You think Balon will show up here?"
"Not necessarily. We'd rather he wouldn't. You see, if he stays in Whitfield, the temptation to help his darling beloved Jane Ann—that simpering little cunt—will be even more overpowering."
"I see." Black's reply was slow. "And if Balon tries to interfere, he will lose his seat beside God; come under much disfavor."
"Marvelous, Black," his mother's reply was edged with sarcasm. "There is hope for you yet."
The look the son gave was laced with hate. "I'm not a fool, Mother."
You'll be worse than a fool should you attempt to plot further against me, Roma thought. But her eyes remained cool. "I never suggested you were, Black. You're just young, that's all."
Black blinked, then vanished from the couch, to materialize in his room. How unimpressive, Roma thought. He can't even do that well. She sat alone in the study for a time, her thoughts many.
She wondered: When I was his age, was I that naive?
She ruefully admitted that it was difficult to remember. At that age, Louis XI was King of France and Columbus had a few years to go before conning the queen out of her jewels. And probably some pussy, Roma thought.
She thrust her eyes to the upstairs, to her son's room, grimacing as she watched him sitting in a chair, rubbing his shins. The fool had banged his legs when he materialized.
This will have to be my coup de grace, she realized, not without some sadness. I am more than five hundred years old, I am tired, and have been everything from a whore to a nun; the former, she grimaced, much more preferable to the latter. If I can bring this off, I will assure myself a place by the smoking side of the Master. If I can somehow impregnate myself with Sam's seed—without cheating, too much—and if Nydia is a Christian and Falcon can plant his seeds within her … then we can leave the finest demons ever to walk the earth.
"Yes," the heavy voice cut into her head. "That would please me, assuring you a seat beside me."
Roma stiffened, asking, "How long have you been listening?"
"Long enough to realize that your son is a fool. Your son, not Balon's bastard."
"You know my son schemes against me?"
"My, how the plot thickens!" the devil howled with dark, burning laughter. "More and more curious, eh?"
The Lord of Flies grew silent. The room became warm. . Roma remained still, waiting.
"Your foolish son is no match for Balon's boy-child of love, ancient one."
"I'm not that old."
"You're too old to be thinking of birthing any more children. You have many more years ahead of you on earth, serving me. You know to birth a demon at your age would mean death. It is written. And, Witch, remember this: there is no guarantee the demon would live."
Roma said, "He would—possibly they would—if you took a hand."
"Impossible."
"You mean you have given your word?" The question was put sarcastically.
The Lord of Foulness chuckled. "Not necessarily. In part, perhaps."
"Nothing firm, then. So it is possible?"
"All things are possible, Roma-Nydia-Victoria-Adora-Zena-Ulrica-Willa-Toni-Sibyl … have I left any out?"
"Several," she said dryly, knowing the Master was reminding her of her age.
"All right, Roma: But what assurances do I have that you and Falcon will produce one of our own, and not some simpering, praying, puky Christian child?"
"If you take a hand, it is guaranteed. And then there is this: we can produce true demons."
"Nonsense! The last time that happened was more than a hundred years ago. Still …"
"It would be a coup against Him, would it not?"
"Yes." Just the thought of Him irritated the Master of Shit. "But you know to produce a true demon means excruciating pain; hours of unparalleled agony, and certain death for the Witch."
"I will do it for you, Master."
"Thank you. Very well, it is up to you, Roma. Do you remember the formula?"
"Yes."
"You may begin. I will help as I can."
Roma sat very quietly in the study as the roaring in her head changed from a howling, burning cacophony to a rush of colors, finally softening to a muted whisper before dying away.
Roma smiled. It was settled. She went in search of The Book.
In Sam's room, neither young person was surprised to see a large, canvas-covered object lying on the bed.
"Want to bet I can't tell you what's in that canvas?" Sam asked.
"No bet."
He opened the canvas pouch. A World War II issue .45 caliber Thompson submachine gun. A fully loaded drum and three fully loaded clips lay beside the weapon. A dozen boxes of .45 caliber ammunition made up the complement of lethal armament.
"Sam … ?"
"Don't ask. I can't answer your question. But you know as well as I where it came from."
"Your dad." It was not a question from her lips.
"Or one of his friends."
"I don't understand that."
Sam glanced at her while one hand rested on the old powerful Thompson. "God likes his warriors. Dad was a warrior. He would have warrior friends in … where he is. And, like it or not, I guess I'm a warrior."
"That gives me an eerie feeling."
"I'd hate to tell you what it gives me."
She read his thoughts. "Sam! Don't be sacrilegious."
He grinned boyishly. "I'm not. Just telling the truth."
She blushed, then gestured upward. "I'm not too certain what He would think about you having the … shits over a job you've been chosen to do—by Him."
"I'm sure He knows the feeling, Nydia. He made man in His image."
"You're a very lovely young lady," Falcon told Lana, smiling
down at her. "I cannot imagine why the young men aren't chasing after you." And he could not rest the feeling that this young lady was hiding something.
"Are you really interested in knowing, Mr. Falcon?"
"Of course."
It was early afternoon at Falcon House, the sky gathering great dark clouds in advance of a storm. Falcon and Lana were alone in the downstairs study. The library room.
She gazed up into his dark eyes, eyes that masked the hunter's look. "Because I don't like what they do."
Falcon arched an eyebrow. "Oh? And what is it they do that is so repugnant to you?"
She walked to the great doors that separated the library from the study and closed them. She smiled as she became aware of the older man's eyes on her shapely derriere. She turned, walking slowly back to Falcon. "They practice Devil worship."
His laughter seemed out of place among the books that lined the walls. "Oh, my dear," he said, wiping his eyes. "Don't tell me you fell for that old joke? I thought Black had long ago given up that line."
"Joke?" Her eyes narrowed.
He placed a hand on her slender shoulder. "Just a joke, dear. Black has a rather … macabre sense of humor. But," he held up a warning finger, "don't let him—or anyone else—know I tipped his hand. Play along with the bon mot—excuse me, joke—right up to the end. It will be our secret."
"You mean that … you mean they don't practice Devil worship?"
"Oh, heavens no!" Falcon inwardly cringed at the hated word, hoping his Master would forgive him his blasphemy. "Oh, we'll have a fine old time with this, you and I. Just when Black thinks he has you convinced, we'll jump up and turn the tables on him. He'll be hysterical; he'll see the joke. Black has a fine sense of humor."
"A joke," Lana whispered. She appeared to be relieved. "Just a joke."
Falcon chuckled and put his arms around her, gently pulling her to him. She rather liked the feel and the strength of the older man. Everything was going to plan. She pressed her face against the soft cloth of his smoking jacket, savoring the scent of his cologne. She had never smelled anything quite like it. It had just a touch of burning pine to it, mingled with a very pleasant scent of musk … and something else she could not define.
Falcon was equally enjoying the feel of the lush young lady against him. The feel of firm young breasts; the slight heat from her loins. Through centuries of practice, he kept his penis soft. "Oh, yes, dear. Just a joke. Oh, we'll have a fine time, you and I. It will be our little secret, right up to the culmination."
She looked up. "The culmination?"
"The height of it all, dear," he smiled, his dark eyes glowing with a hidden fire, "when we achieve the final summit."
"Of course," Lana breathed, her breath sweet.
"Naturellement," Falcon said. There was something very disturbing about this young lady.
After Lana had chosen a few books and left the room, Roma appeared in the center of the study, a slight odor of burning coals with her. "Well, Falcon, it seems you have assured yourself a place between her lovely legs. But what of the others?"
"All in due time, Roma. We have the time. But we must be careful not to depasser les bornes."
"I know the boundaries, Falcon. You just worry about your own perversions with pretty young things, bon?"
"Oui. I have missed you for several hours. Where have you been?"
"Speaking with someone not of this world, Falcon."
They both smiled, and the odor of burning sulfur seemed to grow stronger.
NINE
By midafternoon, the storm had struck, sending all its fury across the land: walls of rain hurled against the great house, the wind bending the trees in a grotesque dance of the elements, the silver liquid bullets of the Heavens hammered against the house. The storm intensified as Roma picked up a huge black book and began reading.
No mortal could have held the book's weight; no ten mortals could have held it, for the black-bound book contained the names of every human being who had ever been converted to the godless teachings of Satan. Every name, from the beginnings of time.
Roma hummed quietly as she flipped through the thousands of pages, the print so fine it would have taken a magnifying glass for a mortal to see anything other than a blur. She hummed a Faustian melody as she sought the page of her choice. It was not easy to find, for its words had rarely been investigated by those before Roma … those keepers of The Book. And it had been used even less. Then she ceased her humming as a smile creased her lips, the page and the evil words leaping at her eyes. Roma devoured the message, memorizing each ritual, each item needed. She closed the book as a satisfying sigh escaped her lips.
Falcon appeared in the center of the room, his face dark with fury … and concern for the witch. "I cannot believe you are really contemplating this!"
"It need not concern you." Her reply was cold. "Your participation is minimal."
"Everything you do concerns me."
"Only to the point it gains some end for you."
"I'll not allow that remark to offend me, Roma. My dear, don't you realize this could well be your gotterdammerung?"
She shook her head. "Nothing quite that dramatic, I assure you. That is still in the future. But if you mean my death, yes, I know that."
"And still you persist?"
"For our Master, yes."
"I will try to be there at … the end. To help in whatever manner I can."
"No. That cannot be. You have never read the instructions?"
He shrugged. "Why should I? Birthing a demon is not the forte of a warlock."
"Only those women who are as we can be present. But you can help in the preparation."
"Tell me what I must do."
"I need the blood of a nonbeliever. That is where we must start."
Falcon sighed, walking to her, taking her hand. "I am really quite fond of you, Roma."
She jerked her hand from his. "Don't become maudlin. You know the only love we may experience is that which we feel for the Master."
"Yes. But I see now why you are doing this thing."
She looked up at him.
"You fell in love with Balon, didn't you?"
Her steady gaze did not waver.
"You don't have to go to this extreme in penitence, Roma. It wasn't that terrible a deed."
"It isn't atonement, Falcon. Put that out of your mind. I merely wish to leave a legacy—some part of me."
"Say it all, Roma," he urged her. "Share it with me—our feelings."
She shook her head. "No. That is past."
"That's not what I mean."
And the thoughts of the witch and the warlock were mingled: what if they failed here at Falcon House? What if all the plans of the Master came to naught? What then?
"I must say it," Falcon said. "You believe there is a chance we will fail?"
"Balon's love child has powers even he doesn't know about—yet. The young man might never have to bring them into play. Yes, he could beat us. So any demon child we produce is simply insurance against the future. I have the Master's permission to do this, so it is settled. And you will have to play a part with Nydia."
"We don't know she is Christian."
"I believe she is."
The witch and the warlock looked at each other for several seconds. Falcon then nodded his head. "I will do my part."
"Always remembering that right up to the last moment, we must attempt to convert them."
"Yes."
"But we may as well gather what we can—just in case. I need blood. The nonbeliever must not die, for we will have to return again and again." Their thoughts were shared. "Yes," Roma said. "She will do." She touched her neck. "Tonight, Falcon. Do it."
He vanished.
Everlasting life; eternal youth; beauty for the women, never-failing virility for the men; an orgy that would span time; an end to the mundane worries that plague mortals. That is what the Lord of Darkness had promised the Coven members of Whitfield in return for their pledg
e of service to him. For a nether world here on God's earth. Just one spot that would truly be the kingdom of the damned; of the Cloven hoof. Then, as time trudged on, the disciples of Mephistopheles could spread slowly outward, carrying the message born in the smoking pits to others, until the Prince of Filth ruled a county, a state, a country, or a world.
All was ready. The churches of Whitfield no longer held any trace of the Lord God: the crosses were hanging upside down; the altars were draped in black; the instruments of Holy Communion were filled with the vilest of liquids ... all was in ready to receive the Prince of Darkness.
The word was received: Let it begin.
Falcon slipped down the quiet hall of the great house, pausing often to listen. But any slight sound he might have made was muted by the clashing of the storm as it battered the land. At a bedroom door, he stood for a time, a smile playing across his lips. He tried the door knob. Unlocked. He eased the door open and let his eyes play across the form of the girl sprawled in deep sleep on the bed.
Judy was a true Christian, Black had said, loyal to her God and His teachings.
She won't be for long, Falcon smiled, the lips pulling back in a grisly leer, exposing the true direction of his long, bloody life. Fangs now marred the perfection of his ivory smile; his tongue was swollen, crimson as it throbbed with anticipation, mentally savoring the hot burst of living blood.
Falcon slipped into the room, quietly closing the door behind him, the noise of the heavy storm covering his soft footsteps. Standing over the bed, he began a low incantation, his deep voice soothing the young woman, edging her deeper into sleep, the slumber becoming a state of deep hypnosis as his voice touched her dulling senses. Falcon pushed her through the stages of induced sleep, until finally she was secure in the deep somnambulistic state of controlled sleep … and then past that into sleep controlled by the Master of the Black Arts, Ruler of the Netherworld.
Falcon gently slipped the thin cover from her body, licking his lips at the sight of her young beauty, his blood-red tongue bumping over the fangs on either side of his mouth, the points of the fangs arousing the engorged organ.
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