The Devil's Heart (24 page)

"Do either of you realize," Falcon said, "how hopelessly outnumbered you are? How puny your powers are compared with ours? And how foolish you are to reject this offer of compromise?"

Sam and Nydia merely looked at him, saying nothing.

"We really are not obligated to abide by any rules," Falcon confided in them. "Believe that. The only reason we are here is to give you young people a chance to come to your senses."

"He is not lying," the heavy voice said as it sprang into Sam's head. "You may accept the offer from the devil's agent and become one of the undead. There will be no more trials and tests should that be your decision. The choice is yours."

"Tested by both God and Satan?" Sam flung the silent question. "How much is to be placed on my shoulders, and when does it end?"

But the mysterious voice was silent.

Both Roma and Falcon were once again aware of the strange power in the room, neither of them understanding it.

"Your decision, young man?" Falcon urged.

"Go to hell!" Sam told him.

Both Roma and Falcon laughed, Falcon saying, "Oh, we've been there, many times. Even at its best, it is a dismal place."

"Then we'll do our best to avoid it." Sam locked eyes with the man.

"Very well," Roma said. "1 would suggest the both of you enjoy your . . . day of rest." Both she and the warlock laughed.

The witch and the warlock vanished before their eyes, leaving behind them a foul odor of sulfur.

Nydia's hand covered Sam's fingers and he gently squeezed it. "It'll be all right," he said.

A different odor covered the departing smell of Roma and Falcon. This one was hideous, stinking of stale blood and rotting flesh, of the grave and beyond.

Nydia looked up, her nose wrinkling at the smell. Her eyes widened, face paling. She began to scream.

Sam started to turn around, to see what Nydia was viewing. Something savage smashed into his head and he fell, tumbling into painful darkness.

"They have all withdrawn from sight," Wade said, putting down the shotgun. He was very tired, and he had left his bifocals at home, having to make do with an old, inadequate pair of glasses he kept in the glove compartment for emergencies.

"They have withdrawn—period," Miles said. He put his shotgun on a table, Doris frowning as the front sight scarred the polished wood. But she said nothing to her husband of oh-so-many years. Good years … all of them. No regrets.

And she was sorry she had called him a klutz so many times over those years. But even with that feeling of love and penitence, she had to smile. Miles was clumsy … always had been. She said prayers even when he tried such a simple task as changing a light bulb. Especially if he had to stand on a stepladder. For if he didn't fall off the ladder, he would always manage to drop one of the bulbs; usually the good one.

But she loved him, loved him with all her heart: he was such a good, decent man. Just like Wade, but in a completely different way. Both of them were honest, decent, and Godfearing, helpful to people in need, no matter what race or religion. She sighed in remembrance.

She turned her attentions back to the men, who were, as usual, arguing.

"… in hell do you know that?" Wade was saying.

"I know. I feel it. Something drastic has happened. You wait, you'll see. Sam will tell you I'm right."

"He is right." Balon's voice jarred them all.

They still could not accustom themselves to Balon's sudden appearances.

Balon said: "They will not be back here. Ever. They will come for Jane Ann on the night before their final night on earth."

"And us?" Miles asked hopefully. One could always keep a bit of optimism that The Man might change His mind.

"We will exit this life together."

Miles muttered something inaudible to human ears.

"I heard that," Balon said.

"So sue me," Miles replied.

"What about him? It?" Doris pointed toward the front steps, at the golem sitting hugely, impassively.

"He requires no aid, no comfort, no food or water—he is all those things. He will sit thusly until he is needed. When he is done with here, he will return to the river."

"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. There 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.

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.