"Lordy, Lordy!" Joe said.

  "And Nydia is your mother?" Monty looked at Nydia.

  "No," she lied. "My mother's name was Roma. But she was also a witch." She was not about to tell these people anymore about her links with Sam.

  The odor of the Beasts was strong in the old orchard. Father Le Moyne grimaced his disgust. "Let us please retire to the house. I don't want you people to think me cowardly, but that smell is making me physically ill."

  "You just ain't whistlin' Dixie 'bout that," Joe said.

  "I hit it hard," Sam said. "It will probably die. Its own kind will eat it."

  Joe's stomach rumbled at the thought. "Monty," he said clutching at the Chiefs arm. "We gotta call the state police or the National Guard, or—hell, somebody.

  "It's too late for that," Nydia said in a matter-of-fact tone. "Everything has been set in motion. Satan will allow no interference from this point forward. Not until the game has reached its conclusion."

  "Game!" Monty shouted. "This is a game?"

  "I'm afraid it is," Father Le Moyne spoke. "Although some of my collegues would argue that. It is a game that is as old as time and earth itself; perhaps as old as the worlds we know exist in the galaxies, and those we can only speculate about."

  "Lordy, Lordy," Joe said. "I gotta go to the bathroom."

  Late afternoon in Upstate New York. Already the shadows were darkening pockets of landscape, creating gloom. Street lamps were coming on, and motorists were turning on headlights.

  The chief medical examiner of McGray County was surprised to see his assistant enter the room. "I thought you were going home, Max."

  "Changed my mind," the young assistant replied.

  "My wife is out of town and I thought I'd try to catch up on the backlog of work we have piled up."

  "Ah, youth," the M.E. said, leaning back in his chair. "I keep forgetting how it is to be young."

  "Fannnntastic!" Max grinned.

  The M.E. laughed. "I said young, Max, not over the hill." He stood up, found his topcoat, and shrugged his way in it. "Ridiculous to be working on Saturday. I'm going home."

  "See you Monday, John," Max said.

  The door hissed. The room was silent, sterile. Max worked at paperwork for a time, but found his mind kept wandering back to the paramedics. Something very odd about them. Very strange. He could not concentrate for thinking about them. So pale and seemingly bloodless. Max finally tossed his ballpoint to the desk in frustration and walked into the cooler room.

  Max looked at the vaults containing the backlog of cadavers and then walked to the center vault, pulling it open. He pulled out the sliding tray and stood looking for a moment at the sheet-covered paramedic. Max flipped back the sheet. He leaned closer to get a better look at the marks on the man's neck. Max remained in position, in numb shock, as the man's eyes opened. Hands suddenly grabbed the young doctor's neck and face, pulling him forward. Max struggled for footing on the tile floor, his leather-soled shoes slipping. He could not yell, for his mouth was held tightly together by hands that seemed to possess superhuman strength. Max felt the hands that gripped him pulling his face closer, closer. The paramedic's breath stank of the dead, the breath putrid and evil-smelling.

  Max cut frantic eyes downward. He could see the red gaping mouth of the dead man, opening and closing as if in anticipation of the bloodless lips touching living flesh.

  Max tried to scream as the hps pulled back, exposing fangs where there were once normal teeth. The undead pulled the living closer, then lunged upward, his mouth closing on Max's neck, fangs sinking into the young M.E.'s neck. He drank and sucked greedily, while Max slowly felt life—as he knew life—leave him. His heart began to strain and convulse in his chest as life-sustaining blood was pulled from him.

  The paramedic staggered from the coolness of the mat and allowed Max to slump, still alive, to the tile floor. He opened the cooler containing the body of his friend. The dead man opened his eyes and smiled, looking up into the pale face of living death. He was helped from the mat and the two men lurched toward Max. There, the second paramedic drank thirstily, draining the blood from the young M.E.

  Both men smacked their lips and grinned grotesquely at each other.

  The paramedic named Dan Golden pointed to the dead—more or less—young doctor. "Can't leave him here." His words were pushed from his mouth, slurred while moving around the swollen tongue.

  "I know," his friend, Jerry replied.

  Their voices were hollow-sounding, and their breath left the odor of decaying flesh hanging in the sterile room.

  The men then spoke silently to one another, the thoughts of the dead yet living transmitted from out of dead brains. They began searching for clothing. They found surgical jackets and pants in a closet and hurriedly dressed. They placed the young M.E. on a rolling gurney and covered him with a blanket. They would get out of the hospital proper first, worry about transportation when that was accomplished. A sense of homing told them they must return to Clark County. To Logandale. To the Master.

  No one stopped them in the busy hospital. The shift that had seen the dead men come in had already gone home. The new ground floor shift were busy, and gave the pale-looking men pushing the gurney only a brief glance.

  The paramedics found an ambulance with the keys in it, loaded the young M.E. into the back, and drove off. Toward Logandale. Home. To the Master.

  Fully dressed, if a bit rumpled, Jon and Patsy walked slowly out of the woods by the river. Patsy had responded even more the second time, with Jon's being much more gentle with her. She had bitten her lips as one shivering climax followed on the heels of another. She could not understand the strange new feelings within her. But she found she did not possess either the will or the strength to fight them.

  "I'll pick you up at your house at seven," Jon told her. "We'll go to my house where we can be alone."

  "All right, Jon," Patsy said. Whatever the boy ordered her to do, she felt compelled to obey.

  "You will not go to your house," a voice spoke to Jon. He knew who it was; all the pieces were falling into place. Everything that had happened to him over the past few months now added up. Jon was a very intelligent young man, and he had silently suspected something of this nature all along. He didn't care.

  "You and your recently deflowered young lady friend will come to the Giddon house. You will be there at nine o'clock. Do not be early, do not be late."

  "As you command," Jon replied. He glanced at Patsy. She was hearing none of the conversation.

  "You do not seem to be overly concerned about silent messages, young man."

  "I'm not. I don't care."

  "Very good. I think you shall find the events of this evening most interesting and pleasant. We will have a task for you later on."

  "Tonight?"

  "That, too. But that is not the task I speak of."

  "Then what?"

  "The young woman of your dreams. The one occupying your mind while you practiced self-abuse in the darkness of your bedroom."

  Tired as he was, Jon's heart quickened at the thought. "Nydia?"

  "None other."

  "Will you answer a question for me?"

  "Possibly."

  "Are you Satan?"

  "Possibly. The Master is always close—one form or another—to those who choose to serve him."

  "The Master!"

  "Of course, young man. I am now your Master. We made a deal. You said you would return a favor for a favor. My side of the bargain has been—" The voice giggled. "—Consummated. Now it is your turn."

  Jon did not give it much thought. He didn't care. "All right," he said.

  "Ta-ta, Jon," the voice cheerfully replied, then faded away.

  "If you know so much," a badly shaken Chief Draper spoke to Nydia. "If you can read minds and—whatever else it is you do, how come you didn't see all this— whatever is happening—and warn people about it?"

  "Because I was blocked out. Because Satan knows I renounced his dark faith and became a Christian. Satan rules the earth, Chief, God the Heavens. But my mother was, remember, a witch, and some of her powers did show up in me."

  "Lordy," Joe said.

  Monty shook his head in confusion and disbelief.

  Sam answered the knock on the front door. Janet stepped in, smiling as usual. "I'm a little early," she said. "But I knew you wouldn't mind." She spoke politely to Father Le Moyne, Chief Draper, and Joe. "Is something the matter?" She looked at Sam.

  "Nothing we can't handle, Janet," Sam said, returning the smile.

  All could see the afternoon had melted into dusk, with the sky overcast, already dripping moisture and sculpturing hollow pockets of gloom around the land.

  "Do you want me to leave, Sam? I get the feeling I'm interrupting some grown-up talk."

  "No, you stay, Janet. Nydia and I won't be going to the movies this evening." He glanced at Monty. "We usually drive over to Blaine for dinner and a movie on Saturday evenings," he explained. He swung his eyes to Janet. "But there is some community business we're—involved in. And we might be late. Your parents won't object if you stay over?"

  "Oh, no. I'll just call and tell them." She hefted a large purse. "You know I always bring a change with me, just in case you want me to spend the night."

  Her eyes were bright and clear and full of innocence, despite the rape she had endured as a child kidnapped and brought to Falcon House in Canada. The teenager had been rescued by Sam and returned to her parents. Rescued, so Sam and Nydia were led to believe. Janet had been Little Sam's babysitter since his moment of birth.

  Janet had plans for Little Sam.

  Monty, Joe, and Father Le Moyne rose as if on silent cue. Monty said, "Well—Sam, Nydia, we'll see the both of you at the house in about an hour. We'll continue this—discussion there. You'll stay for dinner, of course." The men moved toward the door and the approaching night.

  Outside, the door closed behind them, Joe looked toward the old orchard. "Can you imagine eating on that goddamn thing out there?" He looked at Father Le Moyne. "'Cuse me, Father."

  "I couldn't have put it more aptly myself," the priest said, taking no offense. "Gentlemen, I have mass to attend to. I'll see you both around eight-thirty." He walked to his car, backed around the police car, and disappeared into the night.

  "Monty?" Joe said.

  "Yeah?"

  "I'm scared and confused."

  "Join the club, Joe."

  "How come you didn't level with Sheriff Jenkins this morning?"

  "I—don't know, Joe." But he did know.

  "You think he's one of—them?"

  "I don't know. Maybe. Yeah," Monty said, his voice containing resignation. "Yeah, I do."

  "Me, too. Monty, something just came to me a few minutes ago. We're in a box. There ain't nobody on God's green earth gonna believe any of this even if we was to call for help. Hell! They'd lock us up in the loony bin."

  "I know that, too."

  "1 used to look forward to the night. Meant gettin' off work, goin' home to the wife and dinner. Maybe a few beers and some TV." He looked around him at the wet gathering darkness. "I ain't lookin' forward to this night, Chief."

  "Not one word of this, Joe. To anybody. Not a word. We'll firm it all up at my house. Come on. I'll drop you off at your car."

  Janet went to Little Sam's room and stood for a moment, watching the child play with his toys.

  Are you or aren't you? She silently questioned. Are you one of us, or one of them? Are you a child of my Master, or are you a whimpering Christian? I wish I knew.

  The child looked up at her and grinned.

  Janet heard the sound of water running in the bathroom. That would be Sam, taking a shower. She stood for a moment, mentally conjuring pictures of him in the shower, naked. Then other pictures of high sexuality played erotically in her mind. She wanted Sam Balon. Wanted to feel him entering her. She became wet with passion. She fought the pictures away.

  Janet again looked at the child. She thought: If it is determined that you are not one of us, but a spawn of them—I am going to kill you.

  SEVEN

  "Princess," the young woman was addressed. "We have word that the Christians are massing. They are few, yes, but Sam Balon's offspring is among them. As well as the turncoat, Nydia."

  The young woman with the long brown hair and pale eyes looked at her servant. She was tall, with a magnificent figure. Very stately and very regal appearing. She was Satan's child. The daughter of the Devil. A demon. She served only the Black Master of evil. Her father: Satan. She had burst forth from her mother's womb in a shower of blood and torn flesh. Roma the witch had died this earthly life giving birth to her. The young woman looked to be about twenty years of age.

  By earth time, she was three years old. She had been born on the sixth day of the sixth month, at precisely the sixth minute of Roma's pregnancy. At precisely the exact moment Little Sam was birthed. They were half brother and sister.

  But this child was as old as evil—by the hands of the clock that served the Dark One.

  "We have the time to delay," the Princess instructed the gathering at Giddon Estate. "As much time as is needed. My father has put us on no firm timetable. But this time you shall not fail him. The Christians are no matter. Masses have been held at this place for over a hundred years. And tonight shall be no different. We shall honor my father—your Master, the King of Darkness—tonight."

  "Yes, Princess. As you command." Professor Frank Gilbert bowed and scurried away.

  The lovely young woman smiled in the candlelit gloom of the large room. Her teeth were, for a moment, fanged. She allowed herself the heady pleasure of thinking of Sam Balon for a time. Her mother had left her own images in her demon child: the images of the woman Sam Balon, Sr. knew as Nydia; Sam Balon, Jr. knew as Roma. They were one and the same. The Balons, father and son, were lusty men, well-endowed, and the Princess planned to sample the wares of Sam Balon. And while she was sampling, she would gently introduce Sam into the dark pleasures of her Master. One little bite with her very sharp teeth, and the one obstacle toward her Master's ruling this area would be removed. Then they could move on to greater things. The entire state. The United States. The world!

  "Not too fast, my pretty," the voice came to her. The room began to stink of hell. The candles flickered as if in fear. Rain lashed the mansion.

  "Father," the Princess said softly.

  "It is one thing to be ambitious, dear. Quite another to be foolishly reckless."

  "I did not know—was not aware you were so close."

  "Yes. I came because I am quite sure my old adversary will stick His goody-two-shoes nose into this affair and fuck it all up. As He is prone to do."

  The Princess giggled.

  "It is no laughing matter, my pretty," the heavy voice returned her to sobriety rudely. "Your mother died this earthly life birthing you; a gift to me. And don't think for a moment that meddlesome old fart up in the firmament wasn't plenty pissed off about your mother seducing Sam. He claimed I broke the rules—not so. I just interpreted them differently, that's all. So we are going to slow the timetable, my precious. We are going to take it nice and easy and slow, and we are not going to rock any boats this time. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, Father."

  "As long as you do. Now I am going to have some more fun. It's been entirely too long since I visited this planet personally. And keep your legs together, you horny bitch. You must save your virginity for Sam Balon. In that respect, you are just too goddamned much like your mother. Oh, what a coup it would be if you could birth Balon's child." The wind picked up as dark laughter howled in the huge room.

  When the howling had stopped, the Princess asked, "And how is Mother?"

  "Well. Bitchy, as usual. But that is to be expected of her. She is ruling an upper level on another planet."

  "Black?"

  "Which Black?" the voice sounded testy.

  "Wilder."

  "Oh. He's doing quite well. He is teaching new recruits. A fine and loyal man. But your idiot half-brother is the most useless, whining, malcontented son-of-a-bitch I have encountered since Nero. And that silly shit still fancies himself a poet and painter."

  "My half-brother a poet?"

  "Oh, no! Nero!"

  The Princess hung her head in penance. "Forgive me, Father."