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. .h.i.t 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 b.l.o.o.d.y, stinking battlefield as the Warrior wielded his mighty flashing sword as if G.o.d'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 G.o.d's warriors strode through the forest, shouting in a voice only the G.o.dless could hear. He roared at them to stand and fight; he insulted their courage with oaths that made G.o.d cringe in the firmament, thinking: I I will have to speak to the old warrior about that ... again. 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.

FRIDAY MORNING.

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.

He smiled at the carnage that lay on the soft blanket that was the forest floor. The warrior had indeed meant his words when he said he was going to destroy the Devil's sp.a.w.n.

Sam inspected the dead creatures, and found them to be as hideous in death as they were in life. So there was some truth to what is mistakenly called mythology, he concluded. The scientists and the professors and the arrogant atheists aren't as wise as they profess to be.

"So what else is new?" he muttered.

He left the dead ugliness of the Devil to rot and made his way back to a ridge, this one on the east side of the huge mansion. It was by far the best vantage point he'd found, for his shooting distance was shorter, and he would be able to see if anyone tried to slip from the house and circle around behind him.

Smiling, he noticed a bell hanging from the rear of the house. Nydia had said it was very old, an antique her mother had picked up in Europe-Holland, she'd said. Sam jacked a round into the heavy, .460, braced himself for the recoil, and sighted in the bell. "Ring my bell," he muttered, then gently squeezed the trigger, allowing the weapon to fire itself.

The bell clanged, then jumped from its bracings, blown from the brackets by the force of the heavy slug. But the men and women of the Coven, trapped inside the mansion, were ready for Sam this time. From every window came an answering volley of shots, forcing Sam to scamper back below the lip of the ridge. He crawled to the slight protection of a small clump of trees and carefully eased his way forward, until he could see the house. He sighted in one man, firing from the third floor, and eased the trigger back. The b.u.t.t pounded his shoulder. But Sam had been shooting downhill, the scope adjusted for that angle, and his shot was high, not catching the man in the chest, but in the throat, almost decapitating the Coven. The .460 slug flung the man backward, his bubbling scream cut off before it could reach his lips.

Sliding backward, Sam changed positions, running several hundred feet before dropping to the earth and easing his way up to the crest of the ridge.

He spent the morning hara.s.sing those in the mansion, but taking no great personal risk in doing so. He knew he would have to go inside the mansion, and he was not looking forward to that, for that would put him on Falcon's territory, and the warlock would then have the advantage. But as long as he could, Sam intended to cut the odds ... down, at least make it fifty/fifty, even-up, the scales tilting in no one's direction.

NOON, FRIDAY.

Jane Ann heard the clock chime its chilling message. Noon. Odd, she thought, I've always loved that old clock. Now, I hate it. Then from the outside, she heard a low chanting coming from the center of the small, doomed town, growing stronger and louder with each heartbeat. 5he listened until she could make out the words.

"Praise him that is our Master," they chanted. "Now the Christian wh.o.r.e dies. Praise the Hooved One."

The chant was repeated, over and over, until it became a maddened drone in Jane Ann's head. She looked for the mist that was Balon, and was not surprised to find him gone. He had warned her she would have to face some of he ordeal alone. She stood up, moving to the front door. She had taken a long hot bath, fixed her hair, and done her nails. She had put on her best dress, her best jewelry, and now stood facing the door, her Bible in her hand.

Waiting.

"Why does this have to be?" Miles asked the misty face of Balon.

The mist stirred but projected no reply. "I will, if not gladly, certainly willingly take her place," Wade said. "And I know I speak for all here, we've all talked about it."

"That cannot be."

"Why, for G.o.d's sake?" Anita asked.

"Precisely the reason."

"Sam, you're speaking in riddles," Miles accused him.

"No. You are perceiving them as puzzles, that's all."

"She's dying for us, isn't she, Sam?" Doris asked.

"Yes."

"But there is more to it than that, isn't there, Sam?" Wade asked.

"Yes."

"She's dying for you, isn't she, Sam?" Miles' words were softly spoken, and not accusatory.

When Balon thrust his reply, the one word was charged with emotion: "Yes!"

The long filthy line of Satanists stopped in front of the house. The chanting ceased. The town grew quiet.

"Hey, b.i.t.c.h!" a man's husky voice called. "Get your a.s.s out of that house. It's your time."

"Yeah," another called. "And you might as well step out of them panties 'fore you do, 'cause you gonna be out of them d.a.m.n quick."

Ugly laughter rang in Jane Ann's ears.

The pet.i.te lady stepped out of her house, onto the porch, facing the ugly crowd. She was jerked from the porch, seized by dirty, rough hands, manhandled profanely. As if envious of her neat appearance, a woman reached out and quickly mussed her hair. Hard male hands roamed over her body.

"Take her to the circle of stones," Jean Zagone commanded. "The Digging." She stood in front of Jane Ann, hate shining from her dark eyes. She spat in Jane Ann's face, the spittle dripping from the smaller woman's cheek. "It's going to be fun listening to you beg, Christian c.u.n.t."

Jane Ann's reply was calm. "That will never happen. I can't say I won't scream. But I can a.s.sure you, with the Love of G.o.d in my heart, I will never beg."

Jean slapped her, her hard hand rocking the woman backward. "Take her."

Laying on the ridge facing the house, something very cold touched Sam's heart. His big hands gripped the rifle until his fingers ached from the strain. "Mother," he whispered.

The scene in Whitfield was suddenly played before his eves, a five-second burst of reality. Then it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

Sam put his forehead on the ground and allowed himself the denied luxury of tears.

A rifle shot from the house, spitting dirt onto his face, brought him back to his own reality.

The young man cut his eyes upward. "I guess You have Your reasons."

She wondered how long she had been here. Wondered if it was hours, or days. Another man fell on her bruised nakedness, spreading her legs, forcing his way into her, grunting his dubious pleasure as he worked in and out of her. Jane Ann had learned early on that to fight them only meant more pain, with the end result being the same. Better not to resist.

She opened her eyes, watching the last of the sun's rays fade in colors beyond the western horizon. She'd stopped counting the men a.s.saulting her when she reached twenty, and there had been many more after that.

Jake, Jean Zagone's foreman, had been the first, and he had been furious when she did not cry out as he a.s.saulted her.

"Come on, b.i.t.c.h!" he had yelled, plunging his maleness into her. "I bet you ain't never had this much meat before."

And she had made a mistake by saying, "My first husband was bigger."

That had gotten her a hard fist on the jaw.

Jake had then proceeded to tell her-in great detail, with many four-letter words-what he would do to make her beg ... later. This was bad enough, Jane Ann thought; she was not at all looking forward to Jake's promise.

The man lunging at her shivered as he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, and she felt the wetness of him on her thighs, and then the coolness of approaching night fanned her nakedness. Still abnormally warm for this time of year, she thought, then fought to keep a smile from her lips. How ludicrous, she thought. I am lying here on the ground, naked and sore from the a.s.sault of ... only G.o.d knows how many men, wondering what is next for me, and thinking about the weather. I must be going insane.

But she knew she was not losing her mind; knew she had been, as so many prolonged rape victims, learning to detach herself from reality.

She was left alone for a time, lying on the ground next to the dark altar. Someone tossed a stinking rag of a blanket over her, and she closed her eyes.

She must have dozed off, for when she opened her eyes, returning to her world of pain, it was fully dark, the circle of stones torch-lit. Someone kicked her on the b.u.t.tocks with a sharp-pointed boot. She looked up into he hard, evil eyes of Jake. She let her eyes drift downward to his erect maleness. He held the throbbing organ in one hand, stroking it.

"Get up," he ordered. "And bend over that altar, wh.o.r.e. I'm gonna shove this meat up where I think your G.o.d lives. This'll make you beg to Him."

Painfully, stiffly, Jane Ann rose to her feet, looking around her. The crowd had swelled to several hundred men and women, with more arriving each minute. But it was a silent, sullen gathering watching her.

Jake reached out, fondling Jane Ann's b.r.e.a.s.t.s, brutally twisting the nipples. She flinched, but made no sound. "Real gutsy gal." He grinned nastily.

He pushed her face down on the altar, her body bent at the waist. Male hands grabbed her wrists, holding her firm. She felt the smaller hands of a woman parting the cheeks of her b.u.t.tocks, then something hot and hard pushing at her a.n.u.s.

A moment later, her screams were echoing over the circle of stones, mingling with the dirty laughter of the now huge crowd. She screamed out her pain and humiliation.

But she would not beg.

FRIDAY NIGHT.

"You have twenty-four hours, young warrior," the heavy voice boomed into Sam's brain. "Forget the tablet, for it is gone."

"Where is it?"

"Taken by the Dark One."

"Then he must know he is going to lose here?"

"He never loses entirely. Something of importance to him will have been gained here, delivered elsewhere, bursting forth on this earth. Perhaps twice. But time is growing short. Twenty-four hours, young warrior. But you must be gone from this place by the twenty-second hour. Do not ask me why that must be. You have a task before you. Good luck, young warrior."

The force of good was gone.

Sam leaned back against a tree trunk, his mind racing, tossing out ideas and plans almost as soon as they formed. Only one course of action was certain: he had to go inside the mansion.

Sam needed sleep, but was afraid to doze for fear they would find him and kill him. His eyes closed, resting for a moment. Exhaustion quickly overcame anxiety and the young man slept.

The mightiest of all warriors was amused as he watched over his young charge. Sleep for a few hours, young warrior, he thought. I will bend the rules a bit and watch over you. Bending the rules is not that uncommon for me.

Jane Ann lay on her back on the dark alter, blood from her torn a.n.u.s staining the dark evil stone. She shifted position, softly whimpering as pain cut through her.

"Beg for mercy from your G.o.d!" Jean and the others had screamed at her while Jake a.n.a.lly a.s.saulted her.

But Jane Ann had shaken her head no, all the while biting her lips against the pain being forced in and out of her.

When Jake was finished, another took his place, then another ... it seemed never to stop.

Jane Ann wept when Tony stepped forward. "I always wanted it this way," he said. "But you never would let me-remember?" His words had been barely audible over the waves of pain washing her. He mounted her brutally, laughing at her cries of pain. "Good, isn't it, baby?" he shouted.

The rape had finally stopped ... for a time. Then someone brought a huge artificial p.e.n.i.s to Jean, the Coven leader laughing as she strapped it on. "It's better to give than to receive," she said. "Well, baby, receive this."

Jane Ann had pa.s.sed out from the pain.

And now the words Jane Ann feared were spoken, "Let the black ma.s.s begin," Jean said. "Bring the virgin child to the circle."

Jane Ann was jerked from the stone altar and shoved naked into the hands of Coven members. Still their fingers would not stop the seeking of openings to her body. Finally, they tied her hands behind her back, the rope cutting into her flesh. They forced her to kneel before the altar as the black ma.s.s began. The Coven members sang their praises to the Dark One. Jane Ann, with a smile on her lips, sang G.o.d's hymns in a soft sweet voice. Even when a Coven member urinated on her, she continued to sing praises to her G.o.d. Her small soprano voice seemed to carry above the chanting of the hundreds of voices. Her singing infuriated Jean, the woman running to the naked, kneeling Christian, slapping her across the mouth, back-handing her, attempting to still the voice singing praises to a G.o.d Jean had rejected years before. But even with blood from smashed lips leaking down her chin, dripping onto bare, bruised b.r.e.a.s.t.s, Jane Ann sang to her G.o.d.

Jean became wild with fury, striking at Jane Ann with balled fists. Jane Ann slumped to the ground, bright lights popping like painful flashbulbs in her brain. "Shut your G.o.dd.a.m.ned filthy f.u.c.king mouth, Christian wh.o.r.e!" Jean screamed. "One of you men come up here and stick a c.o.c.k in her mouth!"

One did, ramming his maleness into Jane Ann's mouth.

Jane Ann bit him ... hard, clamping down like a bulldog, hanging on with her teeth with all the tenacity of a Mississippi River snapping turtle. The man screamed and howled in pain. Jane Ann spat out part of the man's pride and joy.

Jean kicked her in the stomach. Jane Ann fought for breath, gagging and retching on the ground.

A small girl was led crying and whimpering to the black altar. Jane Ann recognized the child as the daughter of a friend. Carol. She was eleven. Jane Ann struggled to her knees. Speaking around the blood in her mouth, she told the child, "I can do ... I can only pray for you, Carol."

The man who now possessed only half a p.e.n.i.s was still screaming in pain as he was led away.

"Oh, no, Carol," Jean said, patting the girl's head. "She can do so much more than that. She can save you all he pain and hurt. Yes, she can. Just ask her." The child turned anguished eyes to the bound, naked woman kneeling in the dirt. "Do it, Miss Jane Ann. Please?"