The Devil's Heart (33 page)

Falcon also knew the fight that Sam was bringing to the grounds was to the death. And the young man was without fear. He was cautious, but not fearful. Falcon had observed, with the help of his Master's all-powerful eye, the young warrior face down the gulon, the creature slinking off into the timber, back to its hiding place.

And the old warrior, the Mighty One's favorite archangel was here, rubbing his hands together, looking forward to a good scrap, spoiling for a good fight with God's most hated enemy.

It had not gone as planned, Falcon sighed. We have a good chance of winning this fight; the odds are still in our favor, but …

He chose not to think of the alternative.

"Be careful, Karl," he spoke into the handy-talkie. "The young man is dangerous, and he has been well trained for battle. And something else: he has been tested in actual combat; he has killed, and he will not lose his courage."

"Bah!" the man dismissed Falcon's warnings. "He is too young to be that dangerous."

Fool! Falcon thought. "Sam Balon's offspring is a combat-tested, ex-Army Ranger, you idiot. With several special warfare schools behind him. Don't underestimate him.''

"We lost him!" Karl's excited voice belched from the speaker. "He was in sight just a moment ago. Where'd he go?"

"Probably coming up behind you, you clod! The young man is a trained guerrilla fighter." Falcon opened the window facing the woods just in time to hear the sounds of gunfire. "Damn!" he muttered.

Sam had been expecting an ambush and had been watching closely for any signs of one. He had spotted the movement of bushes ahead of him and darted off the path, coming up softly behind the men. The young man had been well trained, and terms of surrender was the last thing on his mind. He raised the SMG and blew the men into the arms of their chosen God.

Sam eased his way up to the fallen men. Blood, bits of bone, and gray matter were splattered on the trees and the ground beneath the men. One man was alive; he raised his hand and groaned.

"Help me," he pleaded.

"Certainly," Sam said. He shot the man between the eyes.

The Old Warrior smiled grimly, thinking: I have no need to worry about this young warrior. Then he was off, searching the timber, sword in hand, looking for a fight with the forces of evil.

Sam picked up a rifle lying beside one of the bodies and inspected it for damage. The bolt action was a Winchester model 70, .338 magnum, in good shape. He rolled the dead man over and removed a cartridge belt from him, then searched his pockets for more cartridges, finding another boxful in his jacket pocket. Sam left a short-barreled lever-action carbine, and picked up a bolt action .308. The fourth man had been carrying a Weatherby .460.

"Elephant gun," Sam muttered, grinning as he stood among the carnage he had wreaked. "I think I'll find me a nice vantage point and do a bit of sniping."

The first round went through a rear window of the great house, hitting a young woman in the stomach, knocking her backward over a coffee table, the mushrooming slug slamming a hole in her stomach as big as her fist. She lay on the floor, screaming her life away, wailing for her chosen Master to help her … stop the awful pain.

He did not.

"Jimmy!" Falcon roared. "Come here."

The zombielike living dead shuffled into his earth-bound master's quarters.

"What is all that noise?"

"Young Sam Balon on the ridge northeast of the house, sir. Got a rifle."

Another slug came whining through the mansion, ricocheting off a brick of the fireplace and knocking a jagged hole in the wall.

"That son-of-a-bitch!" Falcon cursed him, all the while feeling admiration for the young warrior. "By all that is unholy, why couldn't Black have turned out like him?"

"Because young Black is a schemer and a plotter, sir," Jimmy said.

Falcon turned deathlike eyes on the man. "You know something I need to know, Perkins?"

"He plots against you, Master. With some of the younger members. I heard them talking. I was listening and they did not see me."

"What did they say, Jimmy?"

"Young Black said—told them—he had been in communication with our True Master, and the Master had said young Black could have the Coven should you fail."

"Thank you, Jimmy. Thank you very much. For once your snooping and spying was of service. I have a task for you: go to Roma's quarters. Put her in the center room that is free of windows. She must be protected at all times."

"She is with Demon child, sir?"

"Yes, yes," he said impatiently. "Then, Jimmy, as a reward for your information, tell Judy to come to me. I will instruct her that you are to have her at any time you wish."

"Thank you, Master," Jimmy drooled, the slobber dripping in slick ropes to the floor. "You are kind."

"Yes, yes. Now get moving, you cretin." Falcon stood arrogantly at the open window, waving at the ridge where Sam lay sniping. He felt the tug of the lead as it passed through his body. He howled with dark laughter, making an obscene gesture toward the ridge.

Sam watched Falcon through the scope on the .338. The young man was a qualified sniper, having shot for qualification at more than a thousand meters. He knew perfectly well if the weapon was adequate and sighted in. Using the right ammunition—which he was—he could hit anything he could see. And he knew he had hit Falcon.

"Sure, dummy!" he berated himself. "Don't you remember all those monster movies? You can't kill a vampire with anything other than a stake through the heart or a silver bullet, and I sure don't have any silver bullets." There on the wind-swept ridge, cold in the winter sun, Sam chuckled, then wondered about his sanity, laughing at a time like this. "Where are you, Lone Ranger, now that I need you?"

He again laughed. "That's me, a lone Ranger." He shook his head, wondering if the stress was getting to him?

No, he thought. No, it's just like my instructor said about me, back at Fort Benning. "The kid is a natural-born killer."

The remark had gotten back to Sam, and the young man had accepted it. He knew he was different from most; knew that, discovering it early, 'way back in grade school, when an older, larger boy had jumped him for no reason other than the bigger boy was a bully. Sam had picked up a club and bopped the bully on the side of the head with it, dropping him like a felled tree. "He started it," Sam told the principal. "I don't believe in fair fights. I believe there is a winner and a loser … and he lost."

"You're not sorry for what you've done?" the principal questioned. "The boy is in the hospital with a fractured skull."

"No, I'm not sorry. That's his problem."

Sam had taken his licking from the principal without flinching. But he thought it unfair, and told his parents his thoughts.

"Just like his father," Tony had snorted, then walked from the room.

That was about the time, Sam remembered, lying on the cold, windy ridge, that Tony began to change, young Sam hearing rumors about his stepfather's sexual antics. And that was the time a lot of other people began to slowly change. Sam let his thoughts drift back in spurts, short bursts of remembrance, then back to the present, keeping alert. The ministers began complaining of a lack of attentiveness among many of the churchgoers. Some of the churches closed their doors, others got ministers that Christians whispered about, questioning the men's faith.

But his mother had told him, "Just watch your temper, Sam. You're a lot like your father, Sam Balon."

"Is that good or bad?" Sam had asked his mother.

She had smiled, and Sam remembered how pretty she was. "Oh, honey—I think it's wonderful."

Sam pulled his attentions back to the present and chambered a round in the .338. He would have to move just at dusk, changing positions, for he knew they would be sending people in after him. Then he smiled. He'd have a nice surprise waiting for them.

He slipped from the ridge and set about cutting off small limbs, sharpening them. He whistled as he worked.

The hoarse bellow of pain drifted over the darkness of the land. Again and again the screaming spiked the night. Before the echoes of the first howling had died away, another yowl of pain ripped the gloom cast by the shadows of the tall timber. The line of men stopped and backtracked to the clearing behind the mansion, one running for the huge house, fear hastening his feet.

"What is all that screaming and howling?" Falcon asked.

Gulping for air, the Devil-worshiper gasped, "The Christians, sir. He's … put out traps for us. Awful things. Like they used in Vietnam. Punji pits. And he's got swing traps set all over the place; and wire stretched ankle high, too."

"He has what!"

"The wire or rope, sir, is stretched tight, ankle high; man trips, falls forward onto sharpened stakes driven in the ground. The swing traps, sir … you take a stick and tie half a dozen smaller, sharpened sticks to it, about six inches apart. Then you bend a limber sapling back and fix your trap with rope or rawhide. Man triggers the trap, the limb pops forward, coming real fast. King's got them rigged stomach high. It's bad, sir. I never seen nothing like it. You told us this would be easy. You said …"

"All right, all right," Falcon waved him silent. "Stop your babbling and whimpering, man. Get control of yourself. Pull the men back. We won't do anything until morning."

"No, sir, Mr. Falcon," the man stood his ground, "I'm going to have my say on this."

Falcon almost sent him scorching his way to Hell, in :he form of a roach, but he held his temper in check. Things were going badly enough without a revolt among the ranks. "Very well—speak."

"All them monsters and demons and things we helped call out? Well … they're runnin' around like scared chickens. In a blind panic. And do you know why? Well, I'll tell you: 'cause something is after them. There's some … thing out there in the deep timber. I never seen nothing like it in my life."

Falcon suspected what
it
was. "What do you mean? Speak more descriptively, man. What kind of … thing?"

"Well, it ain't human. I don't know what he is. Wears a gown or a robe; carries the biggest sword I ever seen. Damn thing's five feet long—glows. This thing … laughs; and when he does, it thunders. He's killed a hundred or more of them big monsters. The imps are hiding, so are the satyrs. The centaurs have stampeded, whatever those stupid-looking fuckers do. Everybody getting uptight, sir. You gotta do something." Falcon stared the man down, until the frightened Devil-worshiper dropped his eyes. "I shall do something, Karl. But for now, pull your people back to the house. We all need a good night's rest."

When the man had gone, Falcon allowed himself the first taste of fear, of failure, and it was bitter on his tongue. Ugly. He could understand the fear of the forces in the timber. Even the Beasts had refused to leave their caves. While no mortal could kill Falcon with any conventional weapon, the warrior could. And would. If Falcon was foolish enough to leave the house and go traipsing into the timber. And Falcon dared not call on the Master for more help, for that would be admitting failure, and he would be sent back to the netherworld.

Oh, how Black must be enjoying this! Falcon's thoughts were foul, his mood savage and bitter. Grist for his cunning, scheming mill.

Somehow, Falcon mused, I must draw Sam into the house. Once in here, I have a plan, and I will win.

But how to draw him in?

Falcon decided to rest on the matter.

But no one got much rest that night. Every fifteen minutes, on the dot, rifle slugs would pock the house, seeking entrance through the darkened windows. Then Sam would change the timetable, and every five minutes his rifle would roar. And then he would be silent for a half hour. Then firing every minute. One man was hit through the stomach when he recklessly exposed himself in front of a window, light behind him. One young member of the Coven took splinters of wood into his eyes, blinding him. Another was shot through the head as she tried to peek over a windowsill.

On the ridge above the house, Sam smiled grimly, knowing full well the nerve-rattling psychological game he was playing.

In the deep timber, the once tranquil forest floor began to resemble a bloody, stinking battlefield as the Warrior wielded his mighty flashing sword as if God's fury was controlling each devastating swing of the blade.

The creatures of the evil calling were running and flapping and scurrying and lumbering and galloping in all directions, fleeing the awesome sword in the hands of the warrior they knew they could not best.

The mightiest of all God's warriors strode through the forest, shouting in a voice only the godless could hear. He roared at them to stand and fight; he insulted their courage with oaths that made God cringe in the firmament, thinking:
I
will have to speak to the old warrior about that … again.

The warrior rained down slurs upon the od forces' master. But still they ran in fear. Roaring his rage, the sky thundering from the echo of the mighty voice, the warrior stamped the evil life from the rats that scampered in fright beneath his great feet; the bats swirled overhead, screeching their fear, not understanding this manner of man who roared at them, disturbing their inner radar, causing many to slam into trees. Those that were left went flapping back to the warp in time that had allowed them entrance to this place.

And when the forest was quiet, rid, for the most part, of the forces of the netherworld, the old warrior rested, quite pleased with his work this night.

He did so enjoy a good fight.

Sam catnapped from four in the morning until the first red streaks of dawn filtered through the timber. He cautiously moved a mile from his resting place before he squatted down and ate a sandwich Nydia had fixed him, washing it down with cold water from his canteen. With that in his stomach to soften the blow of the diet pill, Sam took one of Nydia's amphetamines, knowing he had to be alert, and knowing he had not had the rest to maintain the vigil he must keep … in order to stay alive and win this fight.