Said in the years to come, the training would do him a lot of good. She said she once knew a man whom she admired greatly; she wanted Black to be like him in some ways. I think she said this man was a guerrilla fighter of some type; Special Forces, maybe."
"Sounds like my dad," Sam said, gazing out the window.
If the communiques could have been heard by human ears, they would have sounded like the rolling of enormous thunder splitting the heavens.
"How about it, Mighty One?" the dark voice ripped through the heavens. "A wager, perhaps?"
The replying voice was calm and assured. "Don't tempt me, Beelzebub. I might decide to end it all. I did once before, remember?"
"Bah! You won't. Not for this inconsequential bit of rabble. Your team against mine, like in the old days. If you win, I'll give you a million whimpering souls from the pits—so to speak."
"I could take them if I so desired. It was their choice. It always is. You should know. Remember: Thou shalt have no other God …"
"Oh, shut up! Don't bore me with that drivel! I had quite enough of that claptrap infinities ago."
"Why do I waste my time talking with you?"
"Because I'm interesting, and despite what you lead others to believe, you haven't yet given up on me, that's why."
"All right, proud one: I'll wager."
"I don't believe it!"
"If my team wins, you convert to my side."
"In a nun's cunt! Judas Priest, when you make up your mind to play, you really want to be a high roller, don't you?"
"Take it or leave it."
"I'll … leave it."
"I thought you would. No, Prince of Rats, I don't like this game of yours. I thought we settled all this a blink or two ago?"
The reply was slyly made. "Balon made a bargain."
"And it was kept, was it not?"
No reply.
"No, Filthy One, I won't interfere … directly. But I might, and I stress might, make the teams a bit more even."
"You wouldn't dare! That's against the rules."
"Oh?"
The voice that was laced with venom and evil howled and flung curses and spat ribbons of filth into the Heavens, attempting to penetrate the firmament. But the Mighty Voice chose not to reply.
Conversations with inferiors tended to bore Him … rather quickly.
"Your dad?" Nydia asked. Her ears had been listening, but her eyes had been fixed on a strange occurrence in the eastern sky. She had never seen anything quite like it: streaks of pure white darting down to almost touch upward thrusts of the ugliest yellow she had ever seen.
God rules the Heavens, she thought. But the Devil rules the earth.
And that sudden thought puzzled her, for she had only been to church a few times in her entire life. She did not remember ever hearing it before.
And what did that narrow plume of white and yellow have to do with religion?
She pushed the confusion from her brain. "I thought your dad was a doctor, Sam?"
"Not my real dad. He was a minister. But from what mother has told me, he was a real rounder. Back during the Korean War, he was a guerrilla fighter; one of the first of the Special Forces. He was a boxer, worked in a carnival, too, I think. Did all sorts of things. He was a real hell-raiser, though, before he became a minister."
"What happened to him?" she asked.
"He was killed before I was born. I never really knew exactly what happened. Mother has always kind of evaded that question whenever I brought it up. Said I would know someday. But I really want to know. It kind of bugs me."
"Were you in Special Forces, Sam?"
"No. I was a Ranger, out in Washington State. Real good outfit. You never hear much about the Rangers."
"Black was a Commando," she said, but there was not one note of pride in her voice, and Sam wondered about that.
"Yes," Sam replied. "That's a good outfit, too."
"Did you see combat, Sam?" she asked.
"Not … that I can talk about, Nydia."
"In other words," she grinned, "drop the subject?"
"That's about it," Sam agreed.
The three of them laughed about that.
"Men!" she said with false disgust. "But I know more about you than you think, Sam," she said mysteriously.
Sam did not ask what she knew about him, or how she had learned it. When he did remember to ask, he didn't, figuring Black had told her.
The conversation lightened, and they sang songs and told jokes and the miles seemed to fly past; three young people having fun. And then suddenly, out of the deep timber, just at that time when night reared up to touch and alter day, the massive house came into view.
Falcon House.
One could almost touch the evil that hung over the small town of Whitfield, and one could certainly see it in the eyes of the townspeople as they moved slowly up and down the streets. Just as it had happened in the 1950s, the evil had approached the people slowly, as a languoring sickness, sluggish in its growth, but deadly when it reached the brain or the heart.
Now many in that doomed town huddled in their homes, not understanding what was happening around them. The phones would not work; their neighbors were turning against them; their cars and trucks disabled … deliberately, and they were afraid.
Whitfield never regained its population total of 1958; fewer than 800 men, women and children now resided in the small town; perhaps 250 people in this part of Fork County, on the ranches and the farms.
But the Master of Darkness had taken note of his mistakes in the past, and did not intend to repeat them this time: no sudden departure from the churches—let that be a very gradual thing; no open rebellion; no mysterious disappearances or suspicious deaths; no closing of roads and sealing off this part of the county. There was no need for that now. Of the 1,050 residents in this part of Fork County, 850 had been inducted into the Coven of the Hooved One. More than enough.
The Lord of Flies felt that a handful of aging Christians could do little to halt his movement in Whitfield, and that silly old Jew with his golem that would never be anything more than several hundred pounds of clay, immobile in a box, gave the Prince of Filth several moments of high humor.
His followers would have several hundred people to test their mettle upon. An ample number to produce days of screaming and nights of sexual depravity. Depravity being one of those Christian words, of course.
The King of Evil had moved slowly this time … no need for rushing; no need for panic; no need for elaborate schemes. The old Jew and Jewess would be no problem, and the aging newspaper man and his silly wife would meet the same fate. The doctor had been easy: the Prince of Darkness had had a high time playing with the good doctor over the years, tempting him, luring him, teasing him, and then, finally breaking him.
But Baton's widow, mother of that boy-child who was blessed by that accursed meddler in the Heavens … she was another matter. A very strong Christian type. Prissy little thing. Goody-goody. She had resisted all of his subtle and not-so-subtle advances; just couldn't shake her faith in Him. She was still a very attractive woman— beautiful, in fact. It would be very interesting finding her breaking point: mentally, sexually, physically.
Yes, very interesting. Quite.
But the Master of All Things did not share the Dark One's sense of humor. And while there were limits beyond which He could not go—directly—in dealing with the problems facing humankind—on earth—He could take a hand indirectly. Other than the ultimate warning He had given, so many years before.
And in His kingdom, spanning worlds and creatures and living things as yet unknown by anyone outside of the firmament, all under His never closing eyes, He brooded and sighed, knowing Sam Balon had slipped out—again. And also knowing He was hard-pressed to contain His personal bodyguard from following.
And a smile as bright as a thousand sunrises touched the face of the Universal Life Force of good.
"Good Lord, what a house!" Sam breathed. "In the middle
of natures' beauty … this."
"Quite a pad, huh, Sam?" Black smiled.
"But … how?" Sam asked. "I mean … why here?"
"How was easy when one is as rich as Roma and Falcon," Nydia said from the backseat. Sam thought he detected just a hint of irritability in her voice; a touch of maybe-this-is-just-a-bit-too-much, too big, too pretentious. "Why? It was originally built, or someone began it as an inn, a hotel. They ran out of money. That's when Mother and Falcon stepped in. They had money from both sides of the family, and they retired young enough to really enjoy it. And they enjoy solitude."
"They can sure have that up here," Sam observed.
"The nearest neighbor is thirty-five miles away," Black informed him. "Two of the servants are trained paramedics in case of any medical emergencies that might arise, and the house has a huge generator and several smaller back-up units. As you can see, Sam, solar energy is used to help cool and heat the home. We'll give you the grand tour, don't worry."
The massive house was two full floors, running east and west, with another single floor rising up from the center of the home, starkly commanding the second and first floor wings beneath it.
"Your parents must employ a full-time grounds-keeper," Sam said.
"Several," Black told him. "Come on, Sam—meet the folks."
Falcon was tall and well built, a very handsome and athletic-appearing man. Age indeterminable. His hair was very black, with gray at the temples. It did not appear to have been touched with dye. His handshake was firm and his smile friendly, although his eyes were so dark Sam could not tell if the friendliness touched them or not.
But it was Roma who literally took Sam's breath away. He was very conscious of Nydia's eyes on him when the older woman appeared in the foyer of the great house.
She was the most magnificent woman Sam had ever seen.
He has his father's eyes, Roma thought. And his father's build and hair. I wonder if he has his father's cock?
"Mrs. Williams," Sam said, taking her offered hand.
"Roma," she corrected with a smile, her hand soft and warm in his. "I am so very happy to have the opportunity to meet you at last. Black has written much about you. But we'll have time to chat later. Lots of time. I know you all must be weary from your journey. Sam … Black will show you to your quarters. Rest for a time. We have drinks at seven, dinner is at eight-thirty. Informal, of course."
The woman before Sam was as tall as her daughter, with the same midnight-black hair and full, sensuous lips, her lipstick a slash of dark red. Her skin was that of her daughter's, touched with the same tint. Her figure was flawless; for her age, breathtaking, with full, heavy breasts and under her gown, long, shapely legs. Had Sam known exactly how old the woman who was once known as Nydia the Witch really was, he would have passed out on the floor.
Sam was very conscious of the woman's frankly sexual gaze. Then, as abruptly as the gaze was heated, it cooled, and a smile crossed her lips.
"I … have the strangest sensation, Mrs. Williams," Sam said.
"Oh?" The smile did not leave her mouth.
"I feel as if I know you; as if we'd met before."
"Oh, I rather doubt it, Sam. You're such a handsome young … devil," she said laughing, "I would surely remember the event. We'll chat over drinks in a few hours. We have days to get acquainted." She turned and walked from the foyer, knowing full well Sam's eyes were on her body. Roma knew many things. Her mind was a storehouse of information—all evil.
Brazen witch! Nydia thought, fuming as she watched her mother parade from the room, hips slightly swaying. The contempt she felt for her mother almost boiled to the surface.
Careful, Mother, Black projected. Your cunt captured Sam Balon, but it failed to conquer him. And young Sam is truly his father's son. It is not worth losing a daughter to gain another conquest.
I know both your thoughts, Roma thrust to her son, the waves stopping Sam cold in his tracks, suspending him momentarily. And I know my daughter has begun to hate me. And I know why. He is interfering. He is breaking the rules of the game. I will have to speak with the Master.
The projections ceased. Sam shook his head. "Boy … that trip must have been more tiring than I thought. I was out of it for a few seconds. I felt … strange."
"It's the excitement," Black said. "New people, new places—kind of a strain, that's all. Come on, I'll show you where to bunk."
Where to bunk! Sam thought, after Black had escorted him to his rooms. It was a suite, consisting of a large bedroom, a sitting room, a huge bathroom, and a large walk-in closet. Sam looked for a radio. None. TV? None. Come to think of it, he mused, he had seen no TV antenna on Falcon House. Only the shortwave antenna for communication. It was almost as if they wished to be cut off from the outside as much as possible.
Turning to unpack his suitcase, Sam could not shake the feeling t>f foreboding that hung about him, and could not understand why he should feel that way.
His peripheral vision saw the doorknob slowly turning, the door easing open. Sam tensed.
THREE
"Sam?" Nydia called.
The young man grinned, expelling air from his lungs. "Here, Nydia."
She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. "You're really very special company, Sam." She smiled, aware of their being alone together. "This is the first time Mother has ever let a guest stay in this wing. Especially," her dark eyes sparkled with mischief, "in the room next to mine." She pointed to a closed door on the far side of the room.
Sam returned the grin. "Well … I'll have to keep my door locked then. I know how difficult it is to be a sex symbol—been one all my life."
Nydia rolled her eyes in mock awe. "Oh, my! I didn't know I was in such celebrated company. Perhaps you'd better keep your door locked. I might try to break it down, lusting after your body."
"In that case," Sam feigned great haste in digging into his jeans pocket, "let me give you the key."
Laughing, they stepped closer to each other. They stood for a moment, content to look into the other's eyes. Finally, Sam said, "I certainly am glad Black invited me up here."
"I certainly am glad you came." Something clouded her dark eyes. "Sam? Be careful in this house."
"What do you mean?"
"I … don't know how to explain it. But," she bit at her lower lip, "sometimes guests are … changed, sort of. In a very strange kind of way. Spooky. I've seen it happen many times over the years. Watch out for the unexpected."
That feeling of foreboding suddenly became much more intense.
Both the young people whirled as the door opened behind them. Roma stood looking at them. "I could not help overhearing," she said. "You will find, Sam, that my daughter has a very active imagination. She desires to become a fiction writer, and I think she sometimes has difficulty separating fact from fiction." She held out a hand to her daughter. "Come, dear. Let's not be rude and prevent our guest from taking his rest."
Sam caught a flicker of something very close to contempt in Nydia's eyes. "Of course, Mother." She glanced at Sam. "See you in an hour or so. Perhaps you'd enjoy a swim before cocktails? We have an indoor pool and a selection of trunks in case Black forgot to tell you to bring a suit."
"He did. And I'd love a swim."
"I'll tap on your door in about an hour. That door." She pointed to the connecting door between their rooms, then glared openly and defiantly at her mother.
The woman left, with Roma closing the door, flashing a brief smile at Sam. A smile that left Sam guessing at its true content. But Sam, like his father, although not to the degree of the elder Balon, was worldly, and he thought he knew what was behind that smile.
Should be an interesting week, he thought. He stretched out on the bed and was asleep in three minutes, sleeping the deep sleep of a young person at the very pinnacle of health and physical conditioning.
He dreamed of a strange-looking medallion but could not bring the relief of the medal into clear focus. In his dream, Sam ques
tioned where he had seen the medallion. Then it came to him: around the necks of Black and his mother. Some sort of family crest, he imagined. And he pushed the dream from him and slept.
And as he slept, the cross around his neck, the cross that had belonged to his father, began to glow in the darkness of the room. It seemed to pulse with life.
Roma and Nydia in bikinis was just about more than Sam could take. Several times the young man had to hit the water of the pool to cool his emotions, throttling an uncomfortable stiffness.
Roma (she had to be in her mid to late forties, at least, Sam thought) had the body of a twenty-year-old, without any sign of aging, no sagging, no marks of age. She was truly astonishing. Both mother and daughter were absolute, sheer, flawless, physical perfection, and Sam's eyes greedily drank in their beauty whenever he felt it was safe to do so without being obvious. Although several times he got the impression they were both parading for his benefit. Neither Black nor Falcon were poolside, and Sam asked Roma about that while Nydia lapped the pool.
"Oh, they're discussing some … financial matters, I'm sure," she said, smiling. "Unearthly as far as I'm concerned. Neither of them care for swimming; they prefer riding or fencing. Both are quite good with the rapier. Do you fence, Sam?"
"No, ma'am."
She laughed. "Ma'am? Really, Sam. That makes me feel positively ancient. Roma, please." She cut her eyes and visually traveled over the young man's body, lingering at his crotch. Yes, she thought, just like his father: amply endowed.
Sam felt he was being mentally raped.
He was.
Sam cleared his throat. "May I ask a personal question, Roma?"
"You may ask anything you wish, Sam."
Okay, lady, he thought. How about you and me finding the nearest bed and getting it on?
Then he was aware of a burning sensation in the center of his chest, right where his cross usually lay.
Roma smiled. "I'm also mildly psychic, young man."
"Oh, boy," Sam muttered.
"Really, I'm flattered, Sam. It's quite nice that a handsome young man—certainly young enough to be my son—would desire me."
The Devil's Heart Page 3
