The Devil's Heart

by William W. Johnstone

  "I feel sorry for him," Anita said.

  "Oh, for heaven's sake, honey," Wade said. "He's made of clay; he has no emotions, no feelings, no concept of what a human experiences. And I still don't believe he's really here."

  "Don't blaspheme," Miles said quickly. "Now is not the time. Just accept."

  Balon spoke to Wade: "You are wrong. God breathed life into him, so he does have feelings. He has feelings of protectiveness toward the four of you. But since he has no tongue, he cannot express them. Since he has no eyes, he cannot see you—as you know vision—so you cannot see his feelings. But that is just as well. Doris would probably have had him in for coffee and cake."

  "And didn't I have you in often enough for cake and coffee?" Doris challenged the mist. "I committed some sin by doing that? You ate like a horse, Sam Balon."

  "Doris!" Miles was appalled. "You hush up that kind of talk. Don't you know who you're talking to?"

  "I'm talking to Sam Balon the same way I always talked to Sam Balon. And I'll speak the same way when we get to … wherever it is we're going."

  "I never heard of such disrespect for the … excuse me, Sam … dead," Miles said. "Sam—why? Why did they pull back?"

  "Because Satan knows he is beaten here."

  "But people are still being raped and tortured and tormented and dying," Wade said.

  "That is true."

  "Why?"

  "I do not question the will of God."

  "Will we get a chance to ask Him?" Wade persisted.

  The hollow voice that was Balon chuckled, then projected: "I think you're in for a surprise, Wade."

  "What do you mean, preacher?"

  "You'll see."

  "Janey?" Anita asked.

  "She is well."

  "That's not what I meant."

  "I know. She has an ordeal ahead of her. A terrible one. But she will endure."

  "You can't know that for certain, Sam," Doris said.

  "I know."

  Then the voice faded and the house was still.

  Sam's head hurt, throbbing with pain. The side of his head was sticky. He put his fingertips to his head and gingerly touched the aching. His fingers came away sticky. He touched his head again, exploring the wetness, finding a small cut just above his ear.

  Groaning, he attempted to sit up in the darkness. He made it on the second attempt, rested for a moment, then got slowly to his feet, swaying in the darkness of the … he looked around him … of the what? Where was he?

  As his eyes began to penetrate some of the gloom ground him, he could tell he was in a large room. A damp basement, he concluded. He stood very still, attempting to get his bearings. He was confused: Roma had assured them no physical action would be taken until Thursday night.

  "And of course you believed her." The mysterious voice ripped into his aching head. "Words from the Devil's whore? How typically mortal."

  Sam's temper flared. "Sermons I don't need. If you knew she wasn't to be trusted, why didn't you tell me?"

  "You are your father's son."

  "I'm getting a little tired of hearing that, too, Mr. whoever-you-are."

  The powerful, awesome voice chuckled, and Sam could hear the rumblings of nearby thunder.

  "Nydia!" He remembered her screaming. "Where is she?"

  "Never take anything for granted," the voice said.

  "What!"

  "Do not trust them further. For as it is written: he knoweth that he hath but a short time."

  "All I asked was a reasonably simple question. Why are you giving me such a bad time with all these riddles?"

  "Oh, but I don't speak in riddles. It is only that you interpret my words as puzzles. But bear this in mind: remember your father's words at the airport."

  Sam's sigh was more exasperation than frustration or anger. "What words?" he asked wearily. "More riddles?"

  " 'I cannot guarantee she will not be hurt. If anything, it was blessed by the Dark One.' Now go to her."

  A wind blew cold through the darkness; a door banged open, dim light beyond it.

  "Through that door, huh?"

  "You have reservations?"

  "Yeah. How do I know you're one of the good guys and not Old Scratch pulling my leg?"

  And again the powerful voice chuckled. Once more, thunder rumbled overhead. "You are learning, young warrior."

  Sam felt the mysterious force move away. He was alone.

  He looked toward the dim light of the open door. "Oh, what the hell … heck. No! I meant hell!" He walked out of the dampness into the cold of the Canadian night. And it struck him: night! How long was I out? Hours, at least. That had to have come from more than a knock on my head.

  "Witchery." That almost overpowering voice cut into his head.

  "Thanks." Sam's reply was dry. He spoke as he walked around the huge mansion, searching for a door. "Tell me: Are you here to help me, or just to bug me?"

  "Bug?"

  "Annoy; harass; needle."

  "Ah. I haven't as yet decided."

  "You will let me know?"

  "Oh, you will know, young warrior. I promise you that."

  Sam stopped at a back door. "I'm going through that door; so I'll be looking forward to hearing from you again. When you decide which side you're on."

  The chuckling, thundering. "Oh, I know which side, young warrior. Of that you may be certain."

  "Riddles," Sam muttered. "Riddles. I don't know what I'm doing here; don't know what I'm supposed to do—not really; and don't know how I'm supposed to accomplish what it is I'm not sure I'm supposed to do. If that makes any damn sense."

  Thunder rolled.

  "Yeah," Sam said. "Real cute." He opened the door and stepped into the warmth of the house.

  * * *

  The speaker of mighty words and the producer of thunder appeared in the circle of stones behind the mansion and once more sat on a boulder. He folded his massive arms across his chest. The manlike traveler appeared to be waiting for someone.

  It was not a long wait.

  "Why didn't you tell the young man his young woman saw the face of the Hooved One?"

  "I think he has to be tested further. But … perhaps I should have. Is that what you wish me to do?"

  "A test? A painful, wicked one, Warrior. What I want you to do? I didn't want you here to begin with."

  "But I am here."

  "Obviously. And instead of listening to the pleas of mortals and attempting to keep shaky fingers off of buttons that would ruin the earth, I am with you wondering why my most powerful ally is sitting on a rock in a circle of stones, erected to worship Satan."

  "The Foul One does not know of my presence."

  "He suspects."

  "Am I supposed to tremble with fear at thai knowledge?"

  The Heavens rumbled with laughter. "Hardly. But at the risk of being redundant, this is not your place. I should order you away."

  "If you do, I shall obey."

  "Yes," the most powerful voice in all the thousands of worlds seemed to sigh. "But have I ever?"

  "No."

  "And so I shall not this time."

  And with a rush of wind, the voice faded, leaving the mightiest of God's warriors sitting on the rock, thoughtfully stroking his beard.

  Sam wandered through the huge mansion, making his way to his room, hoping he would find Nydia there. Their rooms were empty; the great house silent. As a grave. He shook that thought away.

  He washed the cut on his head and applied some antiseptic to the small wound, then took several aspirin and changed clothes. He debated several moments over whether to take the .45 pistol, then shook his head and left the weapon where it was. He went in search of Nydia.

  He stopped at every door, carefully looking in every room. He found no one in either the east or west wings of the mansion, on either floor. The dining area was deserted, as were the servants' quarters. That left only one place. Sam stood very still in the foyer, listening for the sound that had stopped him in his search. The
re it was again. Organ music.

  He listened to the faint but unmistakable sounds of funeral music, somber and low, coming from up above him.

  "Funeral music?" he said. "Who died?" And then panic hit him hard. What was it the voice had said, speaking in riddles, repeating his father's words: I cannot guarantee she will not be hurt.

  "Nydia!" Sam said, running toward the curving stairway, taking the steps two at a time, running for the third floor of the mansion, the music becoming louder with each step, heard over the hammering of Sam's heart and the blood rushing hotly through his veins. "Nydia," he whispered. "Nydia!"

  He flung open each door he came to, with each room yielding the same: nothing. He stopped in the center of the dimly lighted hall, staring at the open, yawning door at the end of the hall. Flickering candlelight danced deceptively from the room, and a heady, not unpleasant East Indian essence drifted from the gloom. The music became louder, but this time it was accompanied by the sounds of soft weeping, from a number of people.

  Sam walked toward the open double doors, the scent of incense growing stronger with his faltering reluctant footsteps. He stopped just inside the door, just as the gloom and the music and the sweet odor of musk and jasmine enveloped him.

  He cut his eyes to the candlelit scene at the end of the long narrow room. A coffin, lid open, rested on a bier, on deep black velvet. The body that lay with its hands folded across its stomach was pale, the lips bloodless. It took but one look to tell there was no life left within the beautiful corpse, or who it was lying there.

  Nydia.

  SEVENTEEN

  Sam's fragile world spun madly for a few seconds, almost dropping him to the carpet. He maintained control, rubbing his face with shaky, sweaty hands. He took several steps closer to the casket, nearer to the dreaded sight, hoping all this was some awful joke. It was not. Nydia was dead.

  Roma and Falcon came to his side. He looked at them closely: their faces were pale and drawn, with real worry lines creasing their brows.

  Sam touched Nydia's hand. Cold and dead. He withdrew his fingers.

  "We are sorry," Falcon said, his voice deep and sepulchral.

  "Yes," Roma echoed his sentiments. "Even though we … are worlds apart in worshiping Masters, she was my daughter, from my womb, and I loved her, in my own strange way."

  "How … ?" Sam started to ask.

  "Time enough for that," Falcon verbally restrained him. "But suffice to say, we had nothing to do with Nydia's … untimely demise. And we both beg you to believe that."

  "But you were going to kill us both!" Sam protested, once more touching Nydia's cold flesh. He shuddered.

  "So how can you expect me to believe you had nothing to do with … this?"

  They gently led him from the scene of tragic young death.

  "Oh, no, no," Roma objected. "No … those were hollow threats … only that, nothing more. We wanted you both on our side … worshiping our Master, but by all that you believe in, do you think I would plot the death of my own daughter? My own flesh and blood? How ghastly, Sam! Cajole, threaten, bluff … and yes, I will admit it, even rape … but death? No, Sam … no."

  "Ridiculous!" Falcon's look was both stern and filled with sorrow, perhaps even a touch of outrage at such a suggestion.

  Across the room, and on both sides, the chairs were filled with Coven members, but they did not at all resemble the men and women Sam had witnessed prior to this; none of them wore the arrogance previously exhibited on their faces. Jimmy Perkins broke into wracking sobs; soon others joined him, the sounds of weeping almost drowning out the soft, sad music.

  "You look exhausted, Sam," Falcon said. Roma put a soft, perfumed hand on the young man's arm. "Let my wife get you some coffee, something to eat, perhaps, and you can tell us where you've been for hours."

  "You don't know?" Sam asked.

  "No," her reply was open and honest. Sam searched her face for a sign of a lie, but could find none. "How could we know?"

  "But you people did that!" he almost shouted the words, pointing toward the open casket.

  Her face registered her shock. "No, Sam ... we didn't. Falcon was telling the truth. We did not. But our Master did."

  "Satan?"

  "That … pig!" Roma spat the word with such venomous hatred Sam was stunned. She spoke it as if clearing her mouth of something nasty.

  "But he is your God, your Master," Sam said. "How can you call him a pig?"

  "He may or may not be our Master," Falcon injected. "That is something we both want to speak to you about. But first," he sighed, "I must go offer my apologies to Nydia. Whether she can hear them or not, it is something I must do." He walked to the casket and gazed down at the face of death. There were tears rolling down his cheeks. Genuine tears.

  "I … don't understand," Sam said.

  "Is it too late for us?" Roma asked, all the while gently leading the young man to a room off the large mourning room. There she sat him on a couch and shut the door behind her, blocking out all sounds of the weeping, the sad melodious notes of the organ; only the soft scent of incense remained.

  "All that," Roma flung her arm toward the door and the scene behind it, "has come home to us, Sam. Reluctantly, at first, I have to admit it, but finally with more conviction than I have felt in … well, might as well be truthful, hundreds of years. I began to admire your God."

  Sam stood up. "This is a trick!" He turned to leave the room.

  The sounds of Roma's weeping stopped him. He turned, real tears were streaming from her eyes. "Oh, Sam, I'm so confused. I don't know what to do, where to turn. None of us do. Do you think we would be, to a person, weeping and mourning if we did not feel a terrible sense of loss and of guilt over this tragedy? We have spoken of nothing else for hours: repentance, the coldbloodedness of the creature we worshiped, yes, even admired for centuries. We want," she sighed, "… out."

  Sam returned to his seat on the couch, beside Roma. "I don't know what I can do."

  "Nydia said you took her into the arms of your God. Can't you do the same for us?"

  "Baptize you?"

  "If that is what it takes, yes."

  "You would have to renounce all other gods, and you would have to be sincere in that renunciation, for my God can see into your hearts."

  "I know," she said softly. "And for Falcon and myself, and a few of the others, it would mean instant death. We are willing to do that."

  "Death?"

  "Yes, Sam Balon King. The instant holy water touches the flesh of a witch, warlock, or the undead, we die."

  "You're willing to go that far?"

  "Yes," the softly spoken one-word condemnation touched him as might a velvet-encased hand gripping his heart.

  He cut his eyes to the door. "You've discussed this with all the people out there?"

  "Every one of them, Sam. That is how severely this … tragedy has touched us all."

  "I just can't believe it," Sam leaned back in the couch, closing his eyes. 'This is just too much … too much in one day." Test her, the thought came to him, but it was his thought, and not spoken from any outside source. He rose from the couch. "I'll be back in ten minutes. Who wants to be baptized first?"

  Her smile was warm and sincere. "Anyone in that room.

  "The line on the east wall, the third person from the end."

  "As you wish, Sam."

  He went to his room and filled a small bottle with blessed water from a church in Montreal. A member of the Coven sat beside Roma when Sam returned to the room, one of the newer members from New York. He smiled at Sam.

  "I don't know all the right words," Sam told him. "But maybe this will work. You're sure you want to go through with this?"

  "I am certain."

  "This is no guarantee you'll get into Heaven," Sam told him.

  "It's a guarantee that I will die, however," the man said gently.

  Sam glanced at Roma. She smiled sadly. "I told you we were all sincere." She rose from the couch to stand beside Sam.<
br />
  Sam looked at the man, sitting quietly before him. Sam sighed, and said, "Lord, I believe this man is sincere, and asking You to help him. I … don't know what else to say." He wet his fingers with holy water and touched them to the man's forehead.

  The man recoiled backward in pain, his flesh bubbling as the blessed liquid ate into his face. The man began a series of regression, as his body flew back in time. A horrid stench filled the room. Soon there was nothing but a pile of rotting rags on the floor in front of the sofa.

  Sam stood, stunned by it all.

  Roma gently led him across the room, to another couch. "This is going to be a terrible ordeal for you, Sam. I think you had better have some coffee, a sandwich before you continue."

  "Yes," he said. "You're right. Please, that would be nice."

  He must have dozed for a few moments, for when he opened his eyes, Roma was beside him on the couch, smiling at him. Sam thought he had never seen such a sad, tender smile in his life. On a coffee table, a small steaming pot of coffee, two cups, and a thick sandwich.

  "Eat," she urged him, pouring the cups full of rich-smelling coffee. "Then we'll talk about your God.

  "This is not a dream?"

  "No, Sam. It's very real. And in case you think the food or drink is drugged, choose what cup you want and give me any part of the food."

  He shook his head. "I believe you." He looked at the pile of rags across the room. "After that."'

  The sandwich was delicious, the coffee as good as the first cup he'd had in the dining area of the mansion—it seemed so long ago. He listened to Roma speak, her words tearing at him as he suspected they were to her.

  "Satan broke all the rules, coming here, speaking to us. He told us he would no longer abide by any rules of the game."

  "The game?" Sam questioned.

  "Of course, it's a game, Sam. A game between the two mightiest players in all the universe. This universe and all the others. A game they have been playing for thousands of years."

  "A game," Sam said dully.

  "A very ugly game, and a very profane one. The Foul One returned, appearing behind you. He is seldom seen in. his natural form—even by us. He is … grotesque, hideous. His very presence often kills should human eyes fall on his ugliness. Nydia's did."