The Devil's Heart (25 page)

"We are sorry," Falcon said, his voice deep and sepulchral.

"Yes," Roma echoed his sentiments. "Even though we … are worlds apart in worshiping Masters, she was my daughter, from my womb, and I loved her, in my own strange way."

"How … ?" Sam started to ask.

"Time enough for that," Falcon verbally restrained him. "But suffice to say, we had nothing to do with Nydia's … untimely demise. And we both beg you to believe that."

"But you were going to kill us both!" Sam protested, once more touching Nydia's cold flesh. He shuddered.

"So how can you expect me to believe you had nothing to do with … this?"

They gently led him from the scene of tragic young death.

"Oh, no, no," Roma objected. "No … those were hollow threats … only that, nothing more. We wanted you both on our side … worshiping our Master, but by all that you believe in, do you think I would plot the death of my own daughter? My own flesh and blood? How ghastly, Sam! Cajole, threaten, bluff … and yes, I will admit it, even rape … but death? No, Sam … no."

"Ridiculous!" Falcon's look was both stern and filled with sorrow, perhaps even a touch of outrage at such a suggestion.

Across the room, and on both sides, the chairs were filled with Coven members, but they did not at all resemble the men and women Sam had witnessed prior to this; none of them wore the arrogance previously exhibited on their faces. Jimmy Perkins broke into wracking sobs; soon others joined him, the sounds of weeping almost drowning out the soft, sad music.

"You look exhausted, Sam," Falcon said. Roma put a soft, perfumed hand on the young man's arm. "Let my wife get you some coffee, something to eat, perhaps, and you can tell us where you've been for hours."

"You don't know?" Sam asked.

"No," her reply was open and honest. Sam searched her face for a sign of a lie, but could find none. "How could we know?"

"But you people did that!" he almost shouted the words, pointing toward the open casket.

Her face registered her shock. "No, Sam ... we didn't. Falcon was telling the truth. We did not. But our Master did."

"Satan?"

"That … pig!" Roma spat the word with such venomous hatred Sam was stunned. She spoke it as if clearing her mouth of something nasty.

"But he is your God, your Master," Sam said. "How can you call him a pig?"

"He may or may not be our Master," Falcon injected. "That is something we both want to speak to you about. But first," he sighed, "I must go offer my apologies to Nydia. Whether she can hear them or not, it is something I must do." He walked to the casket and gazed down at the face of death. There were tears rolling down his cheeks. Genuine tears.

"I … don't understand," Sam said.

"Is it too late for us?" Roma asked, all the while gently leading the young man to a room off the large mourning room. There she sat him on a couch and shut the door behind her, blocking out all sounds of the weeping, the sad melodious notes of the organ; only the soft scent of incense remained.

"All that," Roma flung her arm toward the door and the scene behind it, "has come home to us, Sam. Reluctantly, at first, I have to admit it, but finally with more conviction than I have felt in … well, might as well be truthful, hundreds of years. I began to admire your God."

Sam stood up. "This is a trick!" He turned to leave the room.

The sounds of Roma's weeping stopped him. He turned, real tears were streaming from her eyes. "Oh, Sam, I'm so confused. I don't know what to do, where to turn. None of us do. Do you think we would be, to a person, weeping and mourning if we did not feel a terrible sense of loss and of guilt over this tragedy? We have spoken of nothing else for hours: repentance, the coldbloodedness of the creature we worshiped, yes, even admired for centuries. We want," she sighed, "… out."

Sam returned to his seat on the couch, beside Roma. "I don't know what I can do."

"Nydia said you took her into the arms of your God. Can't you do the same for us?"

"Baptize you?"

"If that is what it takes, yes."

"You would have to renounce all other gods, and you would have to be sincere in that renunciation, for my God can see into your hearts."

"I know," she said softly. "And for Falcon and myself, and a few of the others, it would mean instant death. We are willing to do that."

"Death?"

"Yes, Sam Balon King. The instant holy water touches the flesh of a witch, warlock, or the undead, we die."

"You're willing to go that far?"

"Yes," the softly spoken one-word condemnation touched him as might a velvet-encased hand gripping his heart.

He cut his eyes to the door. "You've discussed this with all the people out there?"

"Every one of them, Sam. That is how severely this … tragedy has touched us all."

"I just can't believe it," Sam leaned back in the couch, closing his eyes. 'This is just too much … too much in one day." Test her, the thought came to him, but it was his thought, and not spoken from any outside source. He rose from the couch. "I'll be back in ten minutes. Who wants to be baptized first?"

Her smile was warm and sincere. "Anyone in that room.

"The line on the east wall, the third person from the end."

"As you wish, Sam."

He went to his room and filled a small bottle with blessed water from a church in Montreal. A member of the Coven sat beside Roma when Sam returned to the room, one of the newer members from New York. He smiled at Sam.

"I don't know all the right words," Sam told him. "But maybe this will work. You're sure you want to go through with this?"

"I am certain."

"This is no guarantee you'll get into Heaven," Sam told him.

"It's a guarantee that I will die, however," the man said gently.

Sam glanced at Roma. She smiled sadly. "I told you we were all sincere." She rose from the couch to stand beside Sam.

Sam looked at the man, sitting quietly before him. Sam sighed, and said, "Lord, I believe this man is sincere, and asking You to help him. I … don't know what else to say." He wet his fingers with holy water and touched them to the man's forehead.

The man recoiled backward in pain, his flesh bubbling as the blessed liquid ate into his face. The man began a series of regression, as his body flew back in time. A horrid stench filled the room. Soon there was nothing but a pile of rotting rags on the floor in front of the sofa.

Sam stood, stunned by it all.

Roma gently led him across the room, to another couch. "This is going to be a terrible ordeal for you, Sam. I think you had better have some coffee, a sandwich before you continue."

"Yes," he said. "You're right. Please, that would be nice."

He must have dozed for a few moments, for when he opened his eyes, Roma was beside him on the couch, smiling at him. Sam thought he had never seen such a sad, tender smile in his life. On a coffee table, a small steaming pot of coffee, two cups, and a thick sandwich.

"Eat," she urged him, pouring the cups full of rich-smelling coffee. "Then we'll talk about your God.

"This is not a dream?"

"No, Sam. It's very real. And in case you think the food or drink is drugged, choose what cup you want and give me any part of the food."

He shook his head. "I believe you." He looked at the pile of rags across the room. "After that."'

The sandwich was delicious, the coffee as good as the first cup he'd had in the dining area of the mansion—it seemed so long ago. He listened to Roma speak, her words tearing at him as he suspected they were to her.

"Satan broke all the rules, coming here, speaking to us. He told us he would no longer abide by any rules of the game."

"The game?" Sam questioned.

"Of course, it's a game, Sam. A game between the two mightiest players in all the universe. This universe and all the others. A game they have been playing for thousands of years."

"A game," Sam said dully.

"A very ugly game, and a very profane one. The Foul One returned, appearing behind you. He is seldom seen in. his natural form—even by us. He is … grotesque, hideous. His very presence often kills should human eyes fall on his ugliness. Nydia's did."

Sam touched the side of his head. "Who hit me?"

"The Dark One. He is everywhere at once, as is your—my God, I hope. Sam?" she leaned forward until her face was only a few inches from his. "Will you teach me how to pray to your God before you baptize me?"

"If … you would like that, sure."

"Oh, yes, I would like that. More than anything in this world, for I know my time remaining is very short, and growing shorter."

"My God might …"

"No," she shushed him, placing a soft finger to his lips. "I know things you do not. Now finish your sandwich, Sam, and then teach me how to pray." Sam finished the hefty sandwich and drank another cup of coffee. "I feel so guilty, Roma, sitting here eating while … she is …" He could not bring himself to say the word: dead.

"Don't be," she slipped a bit closer to him. "Do you think Nydia would want that?"

"No, I suppose not. You're right, of course. She would be happy for you. Is Satan still here?"

^"He is everywhere."

"That's not what I meant."

"1 know. Yes, I can feel his presence. He is furious, but unable to do anything about his anger—at this time. You see, Sam, by merely talking with you about … our decision to reject Satan and accept your God … well, that puts the Dark One in a very bad position. Now he can't make any moves against you; all his earthly allies—that is, we at Falcon House—have switched sides, and the Prince is fearful of your God's powers should he break any more rules."

"It's all very confusing, Roma. But I'm happy for you, if you're sincere, and I believe you are." Sam waited for the mysterious voice to hammer at his brain, but his head remained free of any silent vocal intrusion.

"I don't resent your doubts, Sam," she said, moving a bit closer to him. He was suddenly very much aware of the woman heat of her. "Of course you have suspicions, why shouldn't you?"

The perfume she wore was a scent Sam had never smelled before: very pleasant, not too heady, not too light. And as it assailed his nostrils, the essence seemed to relax the young man, wrapping him in fragrant invisible arms.

"You're very tired, Sam," he heard her say. He nodded his head in agreement as fatigue hit him hard. "Why don't you sleep for a while? The rest will do you good."

Sam struggled to remember why he was here, but his mind drew a blank. He could but vaguely remember soft music and the scent of lighted candles and incense. Everything was blocked out of his mind. What does it matter? he thought, as arms of incredible sweetness and softness slipped around him, cradling him gently.

"Here, Sam," Roma whispered, amid the rustling of clothing, the soft snick of a clasp opening. "Rest your head here." She pulled his head to her breasts.

Somehow, Sam thought, I knew they would be bare and beautiful. He opened his eyes, no more than a slit, found the breasts to be more than beautiful: the nipples were stiff and erect, set amid half dollar sized rose-colored circles. And it seemed only natural his lips would find the papilla, encircling it. Her hands were at the back of his head, gently holding his mouth to her breast, silently encouraging the young man to suckle her as a child.

Sam felt feverish. Not the unnatural heat of sickness, but that his clothing was an encumbrance he did not need.

Here," she said, "let me help you." Her fingers worked at the buttons of his shirt, and Sam quickly felt coolness of air on his bare arms. Pillowing his head against her breasts, he could not think of one single reason why he should object as she worked at his belt buckle, loosening the snap at his waistband. The snick of the zipper followed, and he moved his legs, assisting her in the lowering of his jeans.

She held him close to her for several moments, one hand resting on his flat belly, where his T-shirt had pulled up, exposing just a few inches of bare skin.

He heard her say: "It will be wonderful, Sam. You and I, together."

"Yes," he replied, in a voice that seemed strange to him, alien, not from his larynx. He added, "At last." Although he did not know why he said that.

She moved slightly, and her skirt was gone. She was naked. Sam started to protest that this was wrong, but that strange perfume stifled any objection forming within him.

Why is it wrong? he asked himself.

"It isn't wrong," she said.

"Yes," he said. "It isn't."

Sam was conscious of cool air on his groin, but he felt it wasn't worth the effort to open his eyes and look. Then he realized his underwear shorts had been removed and that seemed all right, as well. Everything seemed all right. Natural. Perfect. A man and a woman together. He moved his head to the satiny smoothness of her naked belly and kissed the indentation of navel, aware of the woman scent of her.

She moved her hand, fingers encircling his growing thickness, stroking him into surging hardness, bringing, him, through the manipulation of her skillful touch, almost to the point of ejaculation.

Then, with one swift movement, she mounted him, laughing as she did so.

Everything returned to Sam … coming in such a rush it almost overwhelmed him with its magnitude: his father's warnings, the warnings of the mysterious voice. Nydia! her memory leaped into his brain. Where he was; what had happened; what was happening. He recalled the vision he had shared with Nydia: the scene of his father fighting with the witch … this woman who now had impaled herself on his maleness, driving her way frantically toward completion.

He began fighting the witch, attempting to dislodge her from his erection, but her strength was incredible. Despite his feelings of revulsion and self-disgust, knowing he had been tricked like a schoolboy, Sam was very close to exploding his semen into her wetness.

She held his hands to her waist with no more effort than if she were pinning a helpless baby to its crib. And despite himself, Sam felt his juices boiling. They began to spill over, then exploded. Using her inner muscles, Roma milked the last drop of precious semen from him, pulled away from him, and padded naked to a table. There, she picked up a vial of dark red fluid, opened the small bottle, and drained it into her mouth.