Then all was calm.

  "See what happens when You lose Your temper?" Michael said. "You really should try to watch things like that."

  The Almighty heaved a mighty sigh. He should be used to the warrior's needling by now. No one else would dare speak to Him in such a manner. "Find out how Balon keeps slipping out."

  "The same way he always slips out. He's an adventurous sort. Restless."

  "Why would he be restless here?"

  "Because he is a warrior. Relax. I don't believe the elder Balon is going to interfere any further."

  "Why is it your words somehow fail to comfort Me?"

  The warrior stroked his beard. He wished he was down on Earth, with Balon, kicking ass. "I haven't the foggiest," he said.

  "Sam?" Nydia asked. "Why are you so uptight this morning?"

  Sam had awakened in silence, and he had not spoken more than ten words in an hour. He glanced at his wife. "My father is near. 1 can feel his presence. He is very near."

  "He's here to help us?"

  "No. 1 don't think so. 1 don't get that feeling at all this time."

  "Who's here to help us?" Joe asked, turning from his post at a front window.

  "My father," Sam said.

  "Your father? But—ain't he dead?"

  Noah and Father Le Moyne sat quietly. Jeanne La-Meade sat beside the priest. The rest of the small group were at their posts, maintaining a watch from the upper level of the mansion.

  "He came back before," Nydia said. "He met us at the Montreal airport several years ago."

  "Lordy!" Joe said.

  Flight 127 came in and emptied its load of passengers. Sam knew no one on the flight. He and Nydia sat in the now deserted arrival area, looking at each other, unanswered questions in their eyes.

  "Son?" the disembodied-sounding voice came from behind the young couple. Sam was conscious of a burning sensation in the center of his chest.

  They turned, looking around. No one was in sight. Nydia dug nervous fingers into Sam's forearm. "Son? Was that what the voice said?"

  "Easy now," Sam attempted to calm her. His own nerves were rattled.

  "Sam?" she said. "Look on the table in front of us."

  A manila envelope lay on the table. It had not been there when they arrived.

  They both looked at the deserted area around them. They looked at the envelope.

  Sam touched the packet. It was cold. He picked it up and carefully opened it. A picture and several sheets of paper. Sam looked at the eight-by-ten of his father for a long moment, then handed it to Nydia. "My dad," he said.

  "I can see where you got your good looks. Your dad was a rugged, handsome man. Sam? Where did the envelope come from?"

  There was a slight grimace of pain on Sam's face.

  "Sam!"

  "I don't know the answer, Nydia. But when that voice spoke, my chest started burning. It's better now, but man, did it hurt for a few seconds."

  Sam looked around them. No one in sight. Sam unbuttoned his shirt, exposing his T-shirt. He heard Nydia gasp.

  "Look at your T-shirt, Sam. The center of your chest."

  The fabric was burned brown, in the shape of a cross. The cross that Sam wore. His father's cross.

  Nydia pulled up the T-shirt. The cross had burned his skin, leaving a scar in the shape of a cross. The scar was red, but no longer painful, even though it was burned deep.

  Sam opened the pages from the envelope and almost became physically ill. The handwriting was unmistakably his father's scrawl. Sam had seen it many times on old sermons.

  "You're white as a ghost, Sam."

  "I—think that's what just spoke to me. My father wrote this."

  The young man wiped suddenly blurry eyes and began slowly reading, Nydia reading silently beside him.Son—writing is difficult for me, in my condition. Want to keep this as brief as possible, but yet, there are so many things I must say to you and the girl.

  "How—" Nydia said, then shook her head, not understanding or believing any of this—yet.I have watched you, son—whenever possible— grow through the years. Tried to guide you, help you, as best I could, Nydia, too. The girl beside you, not the Nydia I—knew. Like that time you got drunk in your mother's car and passed out at the wheel. A close one, boy.

  "I'm the only person in this world who knew about that," Sam said.

  "In this world, yes," Nydia said. She was beginning to believe.Give the cross you wear around your neck to the girl. Do it, son. Time is of the essence.

  Nydia was softly crying as Sam put the cross around her neck.No one will be able to remove that cross from her. No one. I cannot guarantee she will not be hurt, but—well, you must have faith. Now then, a cruel blow for each of you, for I know your thoughts: Nydia is your half-sister.

  "Oh, my God!" Sam said.When I knew her mother, Roma was not her name. Her name was Nydia. She is of and for the Devil. She is a witch. After the hooved one attempted to take over the town of Whitfield— and failed, then—during which Wade, Anita, Chester, Tony, Jane Ann, Miles, Doris, and myself killed hundreds of coven members, I made a bargain with our God to save your mother and what few Christians remained. I won, in a sense. But so did the woman you know as Roma. I killed, or at least sent back to Hell, Black Wilder, the Devil's representative. Your half-brother, son, Black, is named for Wilder. And like that spawn of Hell, he is a warlock. When you leave this terminal, the both of you must go to a Catholic church and get as much holy water as you can. You will need it.

  Sam glanced at Nydia. Half-sister?

  She met his eyes, read his thoughts. "I don't care."

  They returned to the letter.It would be wrong, son, to say the Devil is back, for that one never leaves the Earth; so I'll simply say he has returned to Whitfield. There will soon be a great tragedy in Whitfield, and I must be there to help your mother, for her ordeal involves both of us—and the girl. There will be no survivors from Whitfield. None.

  "Mother—" Sam whispered. And as if the elder Balon had anticipated the question, the letter continued:She has made her choice. Tony has gone over to the other side. He has done so willingly; indeed, a long time ago. I could not stop him, for his faith is weak, as is his flesh. And that is something you will have to deal with as well. You have a mission, son, and I do not envy you your task, for it could destroy you—not necessarily physically, and I can say no more about that. But you are as surely set to this mission as 1 was, years ago. You will be tempted, and you will fall to some of those temptations, for you are a mortal, blessed in a manner of speaking, but still a mortal. A coven is being established at Falcon House. It is a house of evil, and you must return there. Your job is there. You will not be able to contact anyone in Whitfield. Whitfield is dead; past saving. But your mother will speak to you—in some manner—before she slips through the painful darkness to the other side, and to peace and blue and light. We will meet someday, son. I am certain of that and can tell you no more about my surety. The feelings you and the girl share is something that you both must cope with. I cannot help you and I will not lecture you. But I will say this: The union that produced Nydia was not a holy union. If anything, it was blessed by the Dark One.

  "Riddles," Sam said. "The letter is filled with riddles, and I don't know what they mean."I love you deeply, Sam, and wish I could be of more help to you in your task. But I have said too much already. Now I must go. Place the picture of me in the envelope, for that is all of me I can give you that will remain tangible. Put the letter on the table and do not touch it again. Love, Father

  Sam placed the picture in the envelope, the letter on the table. Together, still in mild shock, not knowing what to believe, the young man and woman watched the pages dissolve into nothing. Then they were alone.

  Nydia put her head on Sam's shoulder and wept.

  "Lordy!" Joe said.

  Sam felt his chest begin burning. He put down his AK-47 and unbuttoned his shirt. All could see the brown burn on the white of Sam's T-shirt.

  Nydia helped him out of his shirt and Sam pulled his T-shirt off. The cross dangling from a chain around his neck was glowing a golden fire.

  Noah, Father Le Moyne, and Jeanne crossed themselves. Joe stood in numb shock.

  "The same way the cross you gave me in Montreal did," Nydia said.

  "Yeah," Sam said, putting his shirt back on. "He's here, very close, I believe."

  "Don't that burn you?" Joe asked, recovering from his shock.

  "For a few seconds," Sam told him. "It will just deepen the scar already there."

  "Why do you believe your father is not here to help you?" Noah asked.

  "It's just a feeling I have. I can't explain it any further than that."

  "Nydia is wearing the cross that received the blessing at the airport," Father Le Moyne mused aloud. "And now the cross you wear has been blessed from beyond the veil. I knew none of this. I believe of all of us, Sam, you have the power to destroy a demon."

  "My father is not a saint," Sam told the priest. "He is a resident of Heaven, but that doesn't make him a—doesn't give him the power to make me something I am not."

  The priest smiled. "I disagree with that, Sam. Very strongly. Did you not tell me you faced down one of the Devil's creatures up in Canada? That you fought a warlock and defeated him? Yes, you did. And yes, Sam, I believe you have been blessed."

  A bullet slammed through a window, the lead whining off a wall, finally coming to rest after bouncing around on the carpet. Everybody in the room had hit the floor.

  "I may be blessed, Father," Sam said dryly. "But if you don't mind, I'd rather not have to prove it by getting myself shot."

  "Lordy!" Joe said.

  FOUR

  The day dragged on slowly, with the low clouds and occasional mist seeming to wrap a dirty shroud around the landscape. That one shot was, so far, the only hostile move taken by the Devil worshippers.

  The people behind the stone walls of the great mansion could occasionally hear the faint sounds of moaning, but could not tell where they were originating or what was happening to cause them.

  But all could guess.

  And if the elder Balon was near, he did not make his presence known. At least in any manner the humans could fathom.

  The day had turned off cool, with the temperature dropping into the upper thirties by early afternoon. The wind had picked up, blowing in from the northwest, as if pushed by a mighty helping hand. The small band of Christians could do nothing but wait; and wonder what was next in store for them.

  By mid-afternoon, they knew.

  "Hello, the house!" Pat Jenkins's voice roared into the old mansion, pushed through a bullhorn.

  Joe keyed his handy-talkie. "He ain't alone," he radioed from the upstairs. "There's a bunch with him, and they're lookin' ugly."

  "Armed?" Sam radioed.

  "Look like a bunch of dirty pirates about to jump on board ship."

  "Hello, the house!" Jenkins again called.

  Using a bullhorn taken from the trunk of Monty's Logandale police car, Sam said, "What do you want, Jenkins?"

  "The Princess wants to talk to you, Balon."

  "Tell her to use the telephone."

  "No way, Balon. Face to face."

  "Forget it, Jenkins."

  "You'd better listen to me, Balon. You'll be sorry if you don't see her, kid. All bets are off. We can handle this situation any goddamn way we see fit. And that's the way it is. You understand what I'm saying?"

  "What's he mean, Sam?" Nydia asked.

  "I don't know. Unless someone of a higher power has interfered, causing Satan to pull out; something like that."

  "Your Dad?"

  "I—don't think he has that much power." Sam suddenly smiled. "1 think the old warrior is pulling a fast one and helping Dad, even though God has probably forbidden him—both of them—to do so."

  "Why would He do that?" Jeanne asked. "1 mean, forbid us help? All it would take is just one little-bitty miracle on His part and we'd be out and safe."

  "I don't think God does miracles much anymore," Sam told her and the group. "I think He gives humans the wherewithal and then pretty much leaves it up to them after that."

  "That is correct," the voice spoke in Sam's head.

  "Dad?" Sam asked quietly.

  The room full of people fell silent.

  "Hello, the goddamn house!" Jenkins called.

  He was ignored.

  "Yes, son."

  "Dad, what is happening?"

  "Satan is gone, He will not return to that coven. Unless you fail and they are victorious. You need not worry about the Tablet. But you will be under siege for several days. Look to yourself to even the odds. You are trained to do that. The siege of Satan's followers must conclude by midnight, Saturday. And you must be especially careful between six P.M. and midnight on Friday."

  "Xaviere?"

  "Exactly. I will be able to assist very little, if at all. I will more than likely be punished—chastised is a better word—when I return."

  "For helping us?"

  "Yes."

  "Is it difficult to slip out—of there, I mean?"

  The voice seemed to chuckle. "No. But the majority don't wish to leave. I can't explain any further, son. You will see, in time."

  "Dad, you will forgive me if I choose not to be in any great hurry?"

  Laughter in Sam's head. "The old warrior likes you, son—likes you a lot."

  "Michael? What is he, Dad? And how can he get away with the things he does?"

  "If you had been born when I was active in the pulpit and asked that question of me, you and I would have had quite a session in the woodshed," the voice said with a chuckle. "Michael, son? Michael is one who is like unto God. He is a Levite; a chief man of Issachar; father of Omri; father of Zebadiah; son of Jehoshaphat. Michael is the archangel; God's warrior. Michael is many things to us all; he sits by the right hand of God. And he loves a good fight and loves warriors. Like you, my son."

  And Sam knew then what his father expected him to do. "Dad—I can't fight an entire town."

  "I did," the father threw down the challenge with that short statement.

  Sam felt the presence of his dad leave him, leave the house. The more astute of the others in the room also picked up on the departure.

  "He is gone," Noah said.

  "Yes," Sam said. He then informed the gathering of the gist of his conversation with his father. Joe came in the room just in time to catch the last part.

  "The whole damned town!" he blurted. "There ain't no way possible, Sam. Good God, boy—think about the odds, will you?"

  "Dad seemed to think there is," Sam countered. "And he was adamant on that."

  "Sam," Monty protested. "We're outnumbered three or four hundred to one!"

  "I know," the young man said. "But so was Dad, back in Nebraska, in the late '50s."

  Joe looked mournful. "Yeah. But he got killed."

  Sam glanced at him. "Yes. To save the others," he reminded them all.

  "You gonna answer me or not, you son-of-a-bitch!" Jenkins yelled through the bullhorn. "I'm damn tired of fucking around with you, Balon."

  Sam walked to a window facing the front grounds, opened it, and burned a full clip of ammunition at the gate and the crowd gathered there. Sam watched in grim satisfaction as his burst of fire knocked half a dozen sprawling on the gravel and the concrete. Three of them lay still, dying in bloods of blood. The others twitched and moaned and screamed in pain.

  "There's my reply, Jenkins!" Sam yelled.

  "We'll get you, Balon!" Jenkins promised. "We'll get you all. You can't get out, none of you."

  Then the truth hit Sam. That's right—we can't get out. But for some reason I have yet to understand, you people are very reluctant to come onto these grounds.

  He closed the window and turned to Father Le Moyne. He said as much to the priest, adding, "Can you tell me the story behind this house; these grounds? Is there something special about it?"

  "Sam, there is something that has been nagging at me ever since the day I met you and your wife. But I can't pull it to the surface. For some reason, I think someone is buried on these grounds, under the house, perhaps. It will come to me, in time."

  "I know something about the house," Noah said. "Both this house and the Giddon house were begun within hours of each other, and finished on the same day. So the stories go. For approximately forty years, this mansion was owned by a group of religious people, of all faiths. That was from—oh, 1890 to probably 1931 or '32. Then the mansion was empty for about twenty-five years. Along about 1945, just after the war, it came back on the market. It's been owned by several families since that time."