Devil's Kiss (34 page)

They had been married less than a week. It was their honeymoon.

“Aw, don't be scared,” he tried to reassure her. “Besides, this is the only road for miles. We'd have to go a hundred miles out of our way to get to the main highway if we didn't take this country road through—what is the name of this county? Fork. Sure is a big county.”

“Okay,” she sighed, looking around, making certain all the doors were locked. “But I don't like it—just remember that.”

“Yes, dear,” he smiled.

Ten minutes later, a patrol car pulled them over, its flashing lights turning the highway red.

“You were speeding,” she told her husband in an accusing voice.

“Get out of the car!” the deputy told them.

“Me, too?” the young bride asked.

“You, too.”

Outside their car, headlights and flashing red lights almost blinding them, the young couple did not see the men rush them until it was too late. The young husband was beaten into unconsciousness with saps, then shot through the head at close range, his brains splattering on the blacktop as his head bounced from the impact of heavy slugs.

The woman screamed herself into hysteria as the possessed lawmen ripped off her clothing, forcing her to stand naked in the glare of the headlights.

“Look at them tits,” one laughed, pinching her nipples, rigid from cold and fear.

They raped her and tossed her into the caged back seat, with her dead husband.

They drove to Tyson's Lake.

And the Beasts were pleased this night. Two fresh females, both of them breeders, in one night. The Beasts feasted on the dead newlywed, and then the leader mounted the bride.

The young woman screamed her fear and revulsion as the Beast mounted her. In moments, though, she began to moan and snarl, her body beginning the rapid transformation from human to Beast.

After a time, she sat on the rocky floor of the cave with what had once been Ruth Cash, speaking in a language of mumbles and snarls and guttural lashings.

And they were content.

Neither Sam nor Jane Ann wished to sleep in either of the parsonage's two bedrooms, for evil seemed to hang in the rooms, and the foul odor clung to the carpets and drapes. Jane Ann made up the couch in the living room—which Sam learned folded out into a bed—and they slept there.

After making love, they slept fitfully for a few hours. But the night sounds of Whitfield soon awoke them. Sam was jarred out of a restless sleep, shaken into awareness by a scream.

“What was that?” Jane Ann sat up in the bed, eyes wide with fear.

“I don't know,” Sam said, pulling on his jeans and boots. “But I don't think we'd better count on much more sleep this night.”

Before Sam could slip into his shirt, Jane Ann's screaming spun him around. She pointed to a side window of the living room. The face of Max Steiner stared at them through the glass, his eyes dead-like, red-rimmed. Drool dripped from his lips.

Sam grabbed his .45, jerked open the front door, and recoiled in horror as he ran into Paul Barlow. Recovering, Sam pushed the man off his porch, sending him sprawling on the ground.

“What the hell are you doing on my porch at one o'clock in the morning?” Sam shouted at him. Sam backed away from the steps as Barlow slithered up the walkway, up the steps, crawling as a snake, hissing sounds coming from his lips, his mouth pulled back in a snarl, exposing his teeth.

Sam kicked him in the face, his boot catching his once friendly neighbor on the nose, sending blood spurting. Barlow fell to the sidewalk, crouching there, hissing and snarling at Sam.

Sam raised the .45, jacking back the hammer, his finger tightening on the trigger. “I'll kill you!” he warned, then watched as Barlow slithered off the steps, on all fours, working his way into the night, making terrible hissing noises as he crawled.

“God!” Sam's flesh felt creepy.

“SAM!” Jane Ann screamed. “They're coming in the back door.”

The minister spun, running through the house, through the living room, dining room, into the kitchen. The back door was splintering under the crush of men gathering on the porch.

Sam lifted the .45 and pulled the trigger half a dozen times, the slugs tearing huge holes in the wood. He shouted to Jane Ann, “Get your shotgun—watch the front.” He knew Jane Ann would not hesitate to use the 12 gauge.

There was screaming in the darkness around the back door, as the men—or whatever they were—ran away, dragging several of the dead or wounded with them. The snarling and howling of the possessed filled the night.

Jane Ann's shotgun boomed three times, shattering the momentary quiet. A screaming followed the discharges, then the thud of a body lifted off its feet and slamming to the ground. Moaning.

Sam switched on the outside lights, front and back. A body lay crumpled in the back yard, a bullet hole in the man's head, the head swelled from the impact of the heavy .45 slug. Sam ran through the house, to the front door. A man lay writhing on the sidewalk, both hands holding his stomach, his blood pouring out through his fingers. The shotgun, slug-loaded, had hit him three times in the chest and belly. The man shivered, drummed his heels on the sidewalk, and died.

Jane Ann's face was pale, but she grimly shoved shells into the shotgun, ready for another onslaught if need be. They both heard the sounds of sirens in the distance.

Sam shoved the .45 behind his belt, and strode to the hall closet, jerking open the door, reaching inside for the Thompson SMG. He slapped a clip in its belly and worked the bolt, chambering a round.

“Sam? That's a machine gun!” Jane Ann said.

“It sure is. And I'll bet you that's Addison coming here. He'll try to arrest me—or us. But I've got news for him: he's not going to do it.”

Addison ran up the steps of the parsonage, stepped into the living room, then stopped cold in his tracks when he saw the Thompson in Sam's hands. The muzzle lifted to the sheriff's belly and Addison's gut sucked inward.

“Stand in the hall and watch my back,” Sam told Jane Ann. “If anything—I mean
anything
—moves, shoot it.”

“Now, you wait just a minute,” Addison said, authority overcoming fright.

“Shut your damned mouth!” Sam barked at him. “I figured it all out, Addison. Me, and several others in this town. We know how it was done, and why. But it didn't work with us.”

“I don't know what you're talking . . .”

“Shut up, you son-of-a-bitch!” Sam raged. He was in no mood to act the preacher part. “I know all about the roads being closed. I know all about your Black Masses, and I know about Doctor Black Wilder—where he came from, what he is, and what he's doing here. I don't know why your ... possessed jumped the gun and started this night; you weren't supposed to start this soon, and I imagine Wilder is furious with some of you. You spoiled his little game.”

“You're under arrest for murder, Balon!”

Sam laughed at him, enjoying immensely the flush that spread over the man's face. “You want to try to take me in, Walter. Come on.”

“My dear man,” a voice spoke from the front porch. An educated voice. “My, my, we did make a mistake with you, didn't we?”

Black Wilder stepped into the room. He was immaculately dressed in dark suit, very white shirt, dark tie with a small knot, polished shoes. A medallion hung about his neck. He smiled at Sam, then cut his eyes to Walter. “You may leave now,” he said. “And drag those bodies away from this house. They offend me. You know where to take them.” His voice sharpened. “Get out!”

Addison hung his head in obedience, his eyes fearful. “Yes, Master.” He left the room.

“According to the book,” Sam spoke over his shoulder to Jane Ann, “there will be a woman with him. A dark-haired woman—a witch, Nydia. If you see her, shoot her.”

Wilder laughed. “Oh, no, no, my good man. My, you certainly are a violent one, aren't you? Real Old Testament type. I can see why your God chose you.” He chuckled. “I can assure you, sir, more violence this night will not be necessary. Let me call Nydia in—please?”

Sam hesitated, then nodded, his finger on the trigger of the SMG.

“Nydia?” Wilder called. “Do come in. And do so very carefully. The young lady here,” his dark eyes swept Jane Ann's body, and his eyes filled with lust, “has a most awesome-looking shotgun. And she knows how to use it. In your present form, at least on this night, you are susceptible to scarring, and I know how you pride your beauty. You do remember that musket ball in France?”

“Why are you telling us this?” Sam asked. “Aren't you afraid we'll hurt her—or kill her?”

Wilder laughed. “No,” he shook his head. “You could hurt her, slightly, but you could not kill her. Or me.” His eyes took in the shotgun and Sam's SMG. “At least not with those weapons, sir.”

The woman dressed in black walked stately into the room. She was perhaps the most beautiful woman Sam had ever seen. High, very full breasts, the pale cleavage exposed in her V-neck gown, the V just touching the darker area of nipple. Her hair was the blackest, matching her eyes. Her lips were full and red and moist.

“The V stands for virgin, I'm sure,”Jane Ann said sarcastically.

Nydia's lips pulled back in a faint smile. “Only slightly amusing, dear.” Her eyes touched Sam, taking in his heavy musculature, shirtless. Her eyes drifted to his crotch, and she licked her lips. “I don't suppose you'd allow me the pleasure of kissing you hello?” she smiled.

“You've got to be kidding!”

She laughed, exposing dazzling white teeth. “I guessed as much.” She glanced at Jane Ann. “You spoiled my plans, dear. I wanted so very much to be the one to seduce your new husband.”

Startled, Jane Ann asked, “How did you know we were married?”

“I watched him make love to you yesterday afternoon, in the cottonwoods by that quaint little creek. Your technique is lacking, dear. There is more to making love than just having the man stick it in and grunt.”

“Crude bitch!” Wilder muttered. “Absolutely no class or breeding.”

“The bird that sang above us,” Sam remembered. “I didn't recognize the call.”

“My, aren't you the observant one?” Nydia smiled.

“Mr. Balon,” Wilder said, “why don't you give up this fight? You can't win; surely you see that?”

“I don't see any such thing.”

Mr. Balon—you don't like being called Reverend, do you? Mr. Balon,” Wilder pressed him, “let's be civilized men about this upcoming confrontation. In this area of Fork County, we have over two thousand—two thousand, sir—men, women, and children who have pledged their hearts and souls to my Master. What do you have? Nine-ten people. Eleven, counting yourself. Those are impossible odds, sir.”

“You forgot one, Wilder.”

“Oh? Who, might I ask?”

“God.”

“Well! Where is He, sir?” Wilder smiled. “Is He massing great armies to come to your assistance? No, I think not, sir. You're quite alone with your faith.” He laughed.

“You and your pitiful handful and a silly Jew who doesn't even believe in my Master.”

“All Miles needs—and has—is the belief in a power greater than he. That's enough.”

“You're defending his faith?”

“Why not?”

Wilder sighed. “You're a strange man, Mr. Balon. But, be that as it may, I still maintain you are alone in your fight. May I be seated, sir? Please—we have much to discuss and I see no reason why we can't be comfortable while doing so. Perhaps you would care to put on a shirt, sir. I'm afraid if you don't, Nydia is quite apt to start drooling down the front of her dress.”

The witch laughed at him.

Sam had to smile at the ludicrousness of the situation. He nodded, then slipped into a shirt. The men sat. Wilder on the couch, Sam in his easy chair.

“Nydia?” Wilder said. “Why don't you and—” he smiled “Mrs. Balon go into the kitchen and prepare some refreshments? Some coffee, or tea, if you will.” He glanced at Sam. “I'm suggesting they both go so you won't think I'm attempting to poison or drug you. I assure you, sir, that is not my style.”

“You will not need that weapon, Jane Ann,” Nydia said. “I will not attempt to harm you—either of you—without his permission,” she glanced at Wilder. “And he has said we make no moves until twelve-oh-one a.m. Thursday. For whatever it means to either of you, you have our word on that. There are rules we must follow. Sam is, I believe, quite aware of them.”

“Sam?” Jane Ann spoke the one word question.

Go on, honey. For now, I believe them. It's still a game to them. They're going to try to convert us. Besides, they would rather not lose any more members of their Coven by my hand.”

“Exactly, sir,” Wilder smiled, adjusting the crease in his trousers, flicking away an imaginary spot of dust from his suit coat. “And those who, as you put it, ‘jumped the gun,' this evening, will be punished for doing so. Believe that, sir.”

The men sat in silence for a few minutes, while the women puttered around in the kitchen, speaking in low tones. Sam was amused, thinking that even among the hierarchy of Hell, women were still, at times, relegated to the kitchen.

When the women returned, Jane Ann's face was pale and angry. She sat down on the arm of Sam's chair. “What's wrong?” he asked.

“Nydia failed the first assignment,” Wilder said. “Aside from being crude and vulgar, she is also tactless.”

Sam's look was puzzled until Jane Ann explained. “She told me all about the ... pleasures of their worship. She went into great detail. It seems, so she says, that if we join them, we can live forever. Wilder can assure us of that; our God cannot, according to her. She told me a great deal about ... sex. Without limits, if you know what I mean. She was disgusting!”

Nydia laughed.

“Disgusting only to your way of thinking; your present beliefs,” Wilder said, after a sip of tea. “But there is so much more than sex involved with us. I can promise you power, Mr. Balon. I can promise—and deliver—to you, sir, anything you have ever dreamed of. Join us, name it, and it's yours.”

No way,” Sam said.