The Devil's Heart

FIVE

"What do we do?" Anita asked. She had recovered from her shocked state and sat sipping tea, her gaze alternating between the mute huge, motionless clay man and the mist that was Balon.

"Wait," Balon projected. "None of you can start it. The golem will not kill without some overt provocation toward one of you."

"What … can that thing do?" Wade asked.

"It has the strength of twenty men. It cannot be stopped by anything mortal. A golem is all things of earth. But none of you need concern yourself with the mysteries of the cosmos. The golem will have no will other than what I give it."

Outside, although the day was bright and clear and warm, thunder rattled the windows of the house.

"Excuse me," Balon said. "No will except that which we give it."

The thunder ceased.

Miles said a very quick and fervent prayer, while Anita clutched at a small Bible.

Wade seemed amused. Doris looked at him and said, "You find this amusing?"

"He's still a reporter at heart," Sam said.

"I have personally witnessed one of the greatest stories a reporter could possibly witness, back in 1958," Wade replied. "And am about to witness another. And I am unable to write about either. Pity."

"The whole town—all our friends—have turned against us," Anita said bitterly. "And all you can think about is reporting a story."

"Our friends are dead," Wade replied. "Just like before. They have rejected the teaching of the Almighty and of His Son, Jesus Christ. They have made their choice. So be it."

"I'll go along with the Almighty part," Miles said. "The bit about His Son …?" He waggled his hand. "I got to see it to believe it."

Sam Balon seemed amused by the exchange.

"Him, now," Doris said, looking at the misty form. "He could clear it all up . . . if he would."

"He can't even clear himself up so we can get a look at him." Miles grinned.

"STOP IT!" Anita screamed. "It isn't a joke, my God! I can't take this joking about … our deaths!"

Wade put an arm around her, pulling her to him. "I think it's the best way to hide our fears, honey. But you're right; it is no joking matter."

"Everything mortals question will be explained," Balon projected. "In time."

Anita pushed her husband from her, took a deep breath, and glared at the mist form that was once her minister. "I believed in you with all my heart and faith twenty years ago, Brother Balon. I'll do the same now."

"Good," Balon said.

"Someone's walking up the sidewalk," Miles said.

"Jane Ann," Balon projected. "I asked her to come over for a time."

"She is going to stay with us, isn't she?" Doris asked.

"No. The Clay Man will protect you. I will stay with Jane Ann. You will all know why that must be at a later time.

Miles laughed. "See, momma—who says there ain't sex after life?"

"Miles!" she whirled around, glaring at him. "You shut your mouth with talk like that." Her face suddenly split into a wide grin. "Besides, for the past five years that's all you've been able to do: talk!"

Miles reddened, then grinned. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his thin chest. He had a retort, but thought it best to keep it to himself.

"I agree," Balon said to him.

Miles looked startled for a few seconds, then smiled. "No bad jokes up … there, huh?" He pointed upward.

"You'll see," Balon said.

A cup of Doris's good tea beside her, Jane Ann looked at the small gathering. "Out of the entire town, all this part of Fork, this is it, Sam?"

"Yes. There were those who felt they were Christians. But as they are soon to learn, they were only fooling themselves. And they knew it all along."

"How sad," Anita said.

"It will be the end of Whitfield and this part of Fork County. There will be no more Beasts, no more black masses—there will be nothing."

"Do you mean," Wade asked, "this time we'll really beat the Devil?"

"No!" Balon's reply was emphatic. "No mortal can ever beat the Devil. Only God. And only when He is ready. The Prince of Darkness will just be through here, that's all. And hopefully in a certain part of Canada, as well. And do not ask me questions about that."

"When does God plan on beating the Devil, Sam?" Wade asked.

Balon said nothing.

"Strong silent type," Miles said.

"Shut up," his wife told him.

Miles sighed.

"I don't know if I'll be able to lie to Roma," Sam said. "She'll see I'm lying."

"About what we … saw, and heard?"

"Yes."

"Then … ?"

"I don't know. I don't know what to do, how to start, or even where to start, really. This is all so mind-boggling. Dad said the cross would protect us … but how much protection will it offer? So much of what he said was . . . unclear. How about the way I feel about you? Will … God," he stumbled over the word, "condone my lying? My feelings? I just don't know."

She moved her gaze from Sam's face to the road ahead. Falcon House reared up. "We're about to find out," she said tensely.

"A joke?" Roma said. "What a very bad joke to play." She could not read his thoughts, and that told her Sam was lying. It also told her that someone . . . probably Balon, was interfering; that he had been in some sort of communication with his son. That was nothing new to her: people could and did move quite freely from either side of the death line … providing one had the right connections with the Master of whatever world.

She peered hard at Sam. But she could not read his thoughts. She looked at her daughter, and for the first time since Nydia's birth, her mother could not read her.

And Nydia realized she had blocked her mother out. "Don't look so upset, Mother," she said innocently, the double meaning not lost on Roma.

Roma's returning gaze was tight. She managed a small smile. "A joke? Who would play such a crude joke on you? Bring you all the way to Montreal for a joke?"

"Kids back at Nelson, I suppose," Sam said.

"Well," Roma said, "it's over. You have both returned. And we have more guests. We'll have such a gala time this week. Both the east and the west wings are alive with young people."

And the Devil, Sam thought. He looked hard at Roma, thinking: Fuck you, bitch!

She merely smiled.

Ugly, Sam fired his thoughts. Ugly and old and vain and stupid.

The smile remained fixed, even softened just a bit.

And I'll bet you're a sorry screw!

Her expression did not change. "You both must be tired from the hurried drive," Roma said. "Why don't you have a bit of a rest and get cleaned up; join your friends later?"

"They are not my friends," Nydia said. "A very few I get along with; the rest are creeps."

'They are our guests!" Her mother's tone was sharp. "And you will be civil to them."

"I will ignore them whenever possible." Nydia stood her ground, facing up to her mother for the first time in her life.

High color rose to Roma's cheeks. "We shall discuss this later."

"No need for that, Mother." The reply was calmly stated. "I've said what I plan to do, and that is that."

Roma was inwardly fuming, but she managed a slight smile. Balon has worked his crappy Christian magic on my daughter, she thought. I wonder how many times over the years that sanctimonious stud has meddled in Nydia's affairs—and mine? No matter, for this time I have him boxed; he cannot be in two places at once, no matter if he is as obstinate as that warrior Michael, and just as militant.

"As you wish, Nydia," Roma said. "I must admit, you do have a great deal of your … father in you at times."

"Yes." Nydia smiled. "And I cannot tell you how proud that makes me."

I'll break you. Roma stared hard at the young woman. She shifted her gaze to Sam. And I'll break you as well. And when you are both mine, I'll breed you and have a grandchild that will make the Master proud. And if I can't do that, young people, then I'll give Nydia to Falcon to do with as he pleases. And I assure you, daughter, that will be an experience you will not savor.

"We'll see you at dinner, Roma," Sam said, taking Nydia's hand. The gesture did not go unnoticed by the mother.

Roma nodded her head only slightly, her eyes unreadable. "Yes," she said. She turned and walked away.

"She is very angry," Nydia said.

"Not nearly as angry as she'll be when she sees that cross around your neck."

"Or the burn on your chest."

"Probably be best if we don't swim after this."

"That was to be my next suggestion." She squeezed his hand as they walked down the hall to their rooms. "Sam? I'm not afraid any longer."

"I don't know whether that's good or bad. But neither am I."

"Wonder why?"

"I don't know. And I'll tell you something else: I cannot think of you as my half sister."

'Then don't."

"How come," Sam said, his grin identical to his father's mischievous grin, "if I'm supposed to be so holy all of a sudden, my thoughts are so sexy?"

"I don't know about that." Her hips brushed his, the touch charged with wanton longing. "But mine aren't exactly pristine."

"Are we both awful?" Sam's question was spoken in all seriousness.

"No." The young woman's reply held the same weighty tone. "I think we're just being honest."

"What … do we do about it?"

They walked slowly through the great house.

"Give it some time," she said. They were at her door. She lifted her eyes to his. "I'll keep the door between our rooms unlocked."

"It's to be my decision alone?"

She said, "My mind is already made up." She opened the door and stepped into her room. The door closed softly behind her.

Sam showered quickly and dried off, stepping into underwear shorts. He padded barefoot into his bedroom to stand in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror. The dark, thick mat of hair on his chest looked strange with the burned-on scar of the cross directly in the center. He wondered if the hair would ever grow back.

He gazed into his mirrored reflection. "I have a mission." He repeated his father's words, speaking in a whisper. "And it may destroy me. I will be tempted, and fall to some of those temptations."

He wondered if his father had been writing of Nydia or Roma, or both? Then he decided his father had been referring to Roma.

He stepped away from the mirror and carefully hid the containers of holy water. He opened the manila envelope and sat on the edge of the bed, studying the 8 x 10 of his father. He was still gazing at the 8 x 10 when the knock sounded on the hall door.

Slipping into a robe, Sam opened the door. Adam Benning stood in the hall, smiling at him.

"Sam." Adam stuck out his hand. "Bet you're surprised to see me?" It was spoken in a greasy manner.

The two young men did not get along well. Although the same age, Adam was a senior while Sam was a freshman. And Adam was a sly, sneaky type . . . the type Sam didn't like.

Sam shook the offered hand. It was clammy and soft. Sam resisted the urge to wipe his hand on his robe. "Yes, I am. Black didn't tell us he had invited others."

Adam grinned lewdly. "Thought you'd have Nydia all to yourself, huh?"

Sam stared at him just long enough for Adam to begin to feel uncomfortable under the unblinking gaze. "I think I'll lie down for a time, Adam. So if you'll excuse me … ?"

Adam flushed hotly, clenching his hands into fists at his side. "Well, there's always one, I guess; always one person that has to screw up a good thing."

"Meaning me, Adam?"

"You might learn a thing or two up here, Sam. It should be interesting."

"Maybe more than you realize," Sam replied.

Adam's smile was ugly. He stalked away without shutting the door. Sam turned at a slight noise behind, tensing, then relaxing as the connecting door to Nydia's room opened. She stepped into the room and Sam closed the hall door, locking it.

"I've got an idea, Sam," she said, moving closer to him. He could smell the clean scent of bath soap, and the ends of her raven hair were slightly damp from the shower. A pulse beat strongly in her throat.

It was not a holy union, his father's words returned to him.

Sam could see she was wearing nothing under her robe, from the waist up. He could but guess about from the waist down.

If anything, it was blessed by the Dark One.

Sam pushed his father's words from his mind. "I'll be glad to hear your ideas, Nydia." His voice was husky. "I sure don't have any." Boy, what a lie!

"Your dad may not like this," she warned, taking another step closer to him.

"My dad dumped this … mission in my lap." Sam's tone was a bit sarcastic. "And if you're listening, Dad, I'm sorry. But I don't know what to do."

"Let's play along for a time," she suggested. "I mean … can we leave? I don't think so. I found out my mother can't read me as before, and I suspect your dad had something to do with that. But the strangest thing has happened, Sam …"

He arched an eyebrow at her pause, very much aware that that was not the only part of him that was beginning to arch upward. He resisted an impulse to fold his hands over his crotch.

"I can pick up on your thoughts, now," she said, smiling. "And yes, Sam, I am wearing panties."

And she deliberately chose not to wear a bra. The thought popped into Sam's mind.

"You see?" she said. "It's not exactly reading a mind as much as just guessing accurately what the other has done or is about to do."

She wants me to kiss her. Sam sensed that mental push very strongly.

"So do it, Sam. Before I change my mind."

He stepped off the short distance between them with as much mixed emotion as when he first hurled himself out the open door of a plane, back in jump school. The one main difference being, he recalled, he did not have a hard-on back then.

"How crude," Nydia whispered. She was slightly tense as his hands cupped her face.

"We're going to have to do something about this new power of ours."

"First things first," she said, her lips trembling as her hands found his lean waist and pulled him to her.

Sam kissed her mouth, her throat, her neck, as their hips met in a frontal assault, as frenzied an attack as storming a beachhead.

And then, as they both would later recall, events began happening as if they were really above it all, watching two distinctly different beings in the room.

Her gown dropped to the carpet in a silken rustle of fabric, and his eyes became as greedy as his searching mouth. She pulled the waistcord to his robe and it parted. One touch from her hand and a shrug of his shoulders and robe made contact with gown on the floor.

Her pantie was no more than a thin strip of almost diaphanous silk, the lushness of womanhood vividly outlined, a perfumed jungle resting at the completion of gently curving belly.

"I am not perfection," she told him, thoughts mingling and meeting invisibly.

"You are to me," he replied.

She wore nothing except the gold cross, nestling between her breasts.

His shorts joined her panties on the floor and they were content to stand naked in the center of the room, their lips touching gently, minds speaking volumes of silent words.

"I can't believe it's wrong," she said.

"Nor I."

She ran her hand down his flat, ridged belly to grasp his maleness, fingers encircling the thickness. "Will it hurt me?" she asked, her voice throaty with passion and trembly from anticipation.

And he knew she was telling him she was a virgin. "I … don't know."

The bed seemed the most logical place to answer any number of questions, and they were soon there, without either of them realizing they had traversed the short distance.

His lips found the hardness of nipple and his tongue brought them to jutting nubs of excitement, while his hand traveled over the silkiness of belly to touch the edge of pubic hair and beyond: touching, lingering, fondling the wet lips and extended clitoris, finally moving to caress and part the folds of her, entering the soul of womanhood while she breathed words into his mouth as they clung to each other, joined at the lips.

She found his maleness, hard and eager, and with a knowledge that is inbred, began stroking him, finding to her astonishment and delight, the muscle of love thickening and hardening even more under her soft hand.

She clutched almost frantically at him, whispering, "Now, Sam! Now!"

He shifted on the bed and was between her legs, positioning himself. He gently placed the source of his manhood against the outer fold of woman and gently pushed, penetrating only a bit. She sighed under him, arching her hips upward, willingly asking for and receiving more of what she had desired since the moment of introduction only a few hours before.

Sam slowly and with a tiny bit of pain pushed the length of him into the hot wetness of woman, then slowly withdrew. And from that moment on, it was a battle with no losers; a war of silk and fire and passion; an ageless confrontation between man and woman … but it was more than that. It was a time of pain and pleasure for the both of them as they dueled on the bed, turning the sheets into a satiny battleground, a mixture of scents, a tangle of flesh. It seemed to them to stop time, to halt the forward movement of that which is unstoppable except for that brief time between the cessation of the heart and the soul exiting the cooling flesh.

Nydia began low whimpering sounds, shedding a few hot tears, not from pain or guilt, although one of those would come later, but from the knowledge, the signals her body was sending to her brain, that this deliciousness, this first time that would never again be the same, was about to end. Several small orgasms had shaken her, wavering almost sinfully through her, but as that one huge climax began its grip on her, she fought to hold on. But it was not to be. She grabbed almost too tightly at Sam's shoulders, pulling his mouth to hers as a feeling unlike anything she had ever before experienced ripped through her like the bow of an ice cutter charging through thick ice.

Sam exploded within her, his juices mingling with hers, a volcanic eruption of fluid that spread its warmth around the silken walls of the ultimate entrapment of male and female.

Nydia wrapped her legs around his and pulled him to her until it seemed there was only one person on the bed: a huge double-headed, many limbed creature. She shivered slightly as he softened within her, and she sighed as he withdrew from this battle. Not retreating, merely recouping resources. She kissed him, and he returned the touching of lips with a gentleness that was almost sad.

And they slept. Together. And the two were not alone.

Sam awakened once at the sound of a gentle knocking on the door. He fumbled for his clothes and padded barefoot to the door. The hall was empty, but two trays of food were beside the door. He took the trays in and placed them on the dresser. He wasn't hungry, and Nydia was deep in sleep. He crawled back into bed, and she nestled her warmth against him.

The food was forgotten.

"I have been blocked," Falcon said to Roma. "I cannot tell what is happening with Balon's son and Nydia. Is He interfering?"

"Indirectly, I believe. Through Balon, I am sure. My daughter and Sam now have powers even they do not realize they possess. And I do not understand that. I have attempted to speak with the Master, but I have been unable to do so. That distresses me."

"Roma?" Falcon lingered over the word, drawing it out as his mind raced. "Perhaps … yes! I sense the battleground has been marked; the Master of Light and the Prince of Darkness have finally agreed on something."

"They haven't agreed on anything for thousands of years. Except Their mutual dislike of each other." She was silent as the implication of his words struck home. "You mean … you believe we are alone in this? That neither Master will interfere any further?"

"For now, yes, I do. For how long … ?" He shrugged eloquently, then put a finger to Roma's lips, a gesture of caution. "But I believe this, darling: should we fail here, we are through on earth."

She thought about that for a moment, her beauty marred by the ugliness of her deliberations. She laughed nastily. "Things seem to be repeating themselves. I'm beginning to believe our Master's sense of humor is equalled only by his lack of trustworthiness and loyalty."

"I hope you know what you are saying, for I surely don't."

"My sins—I hate that word!—have come home to roost." She smiled. "Isn't that a quaint expression? A colloquialism, really. I picked it up in Alabama, right after the American Civil War. Excuse me, the War Between the States. I plotted against Black Wilder more than twenty years ago. Someone in this house is plotting against me."

"Not I!" Falcon drew himself to his full height, indignant that she would even think him guilty of such treason.

She laughed darkly. "No," she said patting his arm, "not you, Falcon. Even for a warlock you have an inordinate sense of honor and loyalty. And we have known and liked each other for too many centuries."

"Then … that leaves only …" He refused to speak the name.

But Roma had no such reluctance. "Yes. My son. Black. He is … strange, even for us. And he is also young, ambitious, and, I have to admit it: he possesses my genes and none of his father's."

"But surely the young man realizes his power is not yet equal to yours; will not be until he leaves this life and assumes his true role in the ways of the arts." Falcon shook his head. "But … you are right. Black is … odd, even for us."

Her gaze silenced him. "I don't wish to discuss my son's pederastic tendencies. It is not forbidden by our Master." She sighed and waved her hand. "But you are correct, of course. He does go too far at times. But I have had many offspring—some good, some bad." A thought sprang into her mind; a thought she did not share with Falcon.

"If we are alone here," Falcon mused. "I wonder if the same applies in Whitfield?"

"Probably. I feel Balon is there, looking after his precious Jane Ann. I never could understand what he saw in her. No tits."