By noon, Sam had brought in enough wood to last the women several days. There was plenty of oil for the lamps, candles should they need them, and ample fuel for the portable stoves and lanterns. He took a can of that for his own use. There was plenty of canned food in the cabin. There was no more Sam could do, but he was hesitant to leave the warmth and safety of the cabin ... even more hesitant to leave Nydia. Looking at her, sitting quietly in a chair by the fire, Sam realized just how much he loved her, and knew that that love-right or wrong, morally-was growing each day.

She met his tender gaze. "It's time for you to go, Sam."

"I know."

"We'll be all right," she said. "We have weapons, and 1 know how to use them. And," she blinked away sudden tears, "you have a job to do. Time is growing short, I believe."

"Yes," he agreed, still reluctant to leave.

"I packed the holy water as carefully as I could. You're sure you have everything else you'll need?"

He nodded his head.

"I love you, Sam."

"And I love you, Nydia."

"Go with G.o.d," she said, her voice breaking.

Without looking back, Sam opened the door and stepped out into the cold air. He quietly closed the door behind him, jacked a round into the chamber of the old Thompson, slipped the SMG on safety, and walked down the path, heading toward Falcon House. The young man had a mission few would envy.

To meet the Devil.

A thousand miles away, the Coven was resting in and around Whitfield. The members, hundreds of them, were, to a person, exhausted after a night of debauchery, torture, and depravity. Their clothing reeked of filth and sin, for none among them had bathed in a week. The stink of the Devil worshipers and the smell of rotting flesh hung over the town like an ominous cloud called into being from the drum and cannon of a depraved rainmaker. The Coven members lay in sleep where they had fallen in exhaustion, stinking breathing heaps of wickedness ... who would soon learn the awesome furious power of G.o.d's retributive wrath toward those who serve another Master.

In the Lansky home, the four people sat quietly. They listened to the almost too loud ticking of the old grandfather clock.

On the porch steps of the Lansky home, the Clay Man was immobile. He waited.

Jane Ann sat, reading from the Bible, reading the verses the mist that was Balon had directed her to read. She read, gaining inner strength for the ordeal that faced her. Soon.

And in the firmament, the Ruler of All Things, all planets, gave a rumbling command. A dead star sprang into life, billions and billions of miles from the planet known as earth. The bit of rock began to glow and smoke, and it began its journey slowly.

A creature from another time, another world, sprang onto the path Sam trod. It roared and clawed the earth. But Sam had studied the words of the warrior and understood at least part of them. He stood his ground, glaring at the gulon, a hideous mixture of the hyena and the lion.

"You can harm me only if I cease to believe in G.o.d's word, G.o.d's love, G.o.d's power, and G.o.d's protection," Sam said to the creature. "And I will never stop believing in Him. So get out of my way and get back to h.e.l.l where you belong."

The creature turned its tail and slipped back into the timber, afraid of this mortal with G.o.d's protection against its kind.

"Personally," the voice came to Sam, "I would have fought the ugly beast of h.e.l.l."

"To each his own." Sam continued walking.

"The house, the few acres around it, and those who live with evil in it are yours. All else is mine."

"Going to destroy the Devil's sp.a.w.n?"

"Yes. Those that were called."

"There are more of those ... things?"

"As many as a nonbeliever wishes there to be."

"Someday-not soon, I hope-I'm going to have a long talk with you."

The mighty warrior could have told Sam when that time would be, but that was forbidden. Not that the warrior always obeyed the rules, for he did not. But ... most of them.

The warrior faded and was gone from Sam's consciousness. But he watched the young warrior stride purposefully down the path. He could not tell him of the pain that awaited him; could not relate the horrors that would confront him. But the warrior felt the young one could cope. He would be bloodied, but with his head not bowed in subservience to that filthy rabble of the Hooved One.

A mile from the cleared ground of the mansion, Sam stopped for a rest, and to prepare some equipment. He carefully checked the old Thompson and his father's .45 pistol. He tested the edge to his knife. He bloused his jeans in his jump boots, retying the boot laces, securing them. He had filled half a dozen small bottles with the highly flammable portable stove fuel, and he checked them for breakage, repacking them carefully. He stood up, reached inside his jacket, and pulled out his black wool Ranger beret, with his old unit crest attached. He settled the beret on his head, took a deep breath, and walked down the path.

He was as ready as he knew how to be.

"He's coming," Karl spoke to Falcon, utilizing a handheld handy-talkie.

Falcon stood in front of the window of his quarters; Karl was hidden in the timber, waiting with other men to ambush Sam.

Falcon knew where Nydia and the others were, just as he knew his Master had instructed the b.i.t.c.h to watch out for Nydia's well-being, in case Falcon's seed had overpowered Sam's weak flow of s.e.m.e.n and she was with demon, as Roma felt her daughter was.

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 sc.r.a.p, spoiling for a good fight with G.o.d'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. "d.a.m.n!" 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 G.o.d.

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-b.i.t.c.h!" 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 s...o...b..r 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 pa.s.sed 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 princ.i.p.al. "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 princ.i.p.al 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 princ.i.p.al 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 s.e.xual 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.

THURSDAY NIGHT.

The hoa.r.s.e 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 h.e.l.l, 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 it was. "What do you mean? Speak more descriptively, man. What kind of ... thing?" 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. d.a.m.n 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 f.u.c.kers 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.