"Like a hot river."
"You still remember?"
"I shall never forget it. I mounted him a half dozen times before he lost the battle and I could keep him inside me.
"Tell me, Roma: Did you cheat?"
She seemed astonished he would even ask such a foolish question. "Of course!"
"Then there is the answer to your question, and many more unasked questions. Why Black is deceitful and plotting, for one. Balon's seeds were many. Pure and strong, with most of them forming Nydia. Black is weak and scheming. Weak in many areas; I've known that for years. We must not lean too heavily upon him. You know, of course, he cheated taking his difficult military training?"
She whirled about, her face flushed. "He swore to me he would not."
"But he did. I wanted to tell you … wanted to see how that deception affected him. I will tell you this, and you know I am a warrior: Black will be no match for young Sam. I … sensed something else, as well, Roma: the young man has killed, and not just in the heat of open battle. I sense … he has killed, once, at least, probably several times, on orders from his government."
"Covertly and cold-bloodedly?"
"Yes."
"When you were able to see his thoughts, study his innermost character, how had the killing affected him?"
Falcon paused, lighting his pipe, sending billowing clouds of fragrant smoke swirling about him. The silence only heightened the moment. "Not at all," he finally said. "The young man is a true warrior. And you know how He," Falcon cast his eyes upward, "feels about warriors."
"Young Sam is his father's son." Roma smiled.
"Entirely."
Her smile grew wicked.
Falcon read her thoughts. "Roma … ?"
She met his eyes, dark evil gazing into dark evil. "Yes, Falcon?"
"It's too dangerous. You're much too old for that nonsense. Birthing the twins almost killed you. Or have you forgotten?"
"No, but I failed with them. And now—if your deductions are correct, and I believe they are—I know why. It would not be that way with young Sam."
"You would not cheat? You, my dear?" He chuckled. "Anyway, Roma, it's out of the question for a number of reasons, paramount among them the fact young Sam is in love with his half sister, and she with him. They're practically nauseating with it. Besides, I forbid you to take the chance." He turned his head, smiling as he spoke the last, knowing what her reaction would be. He was not disappointed.
She gave him a look that would have stopped a runaway truck dead in the road. "You FORBID it!" she screamed at him. "Forbid! You do not forbid me to do a fucking thing!"
Falcon sighed. "And I worked so hard improving your vocabulary, taking it from the gutter. Now you revert."
"Forbid me! Are you forgetting who is in command here?"
"Not at all, my dear. Calm yourself. I was merely attempting to be practical about this matter. Roma, consider the risk factor. One: even should you seduce the young man without cheating, having a demon child would kill you. That is written. Secondly: the Master would surely void your plan. Oh, Roma … go fuck the young man, any way you can, and get it out of—or in your case—into your system. Then forget it. We have matters of much greater urgency here."
She whirled and stalked from the room, cursing under her breath. Falcon watched her leave, slamming the door. He stood and slowly shook his head. A pity, he thought, to be so obsessed by the memory of Balon. She fell in love with a Man of God.
He shuddered at the thought. How degrading!
"They stopped watching us," Nydia said. "I could feel her eyes when they left me. They're planning something, Sam."
"Sure they are. Evil. I just wish I knew what I—we—are supposed to do about it. Do I have a free hand? I don't know. Nydia? I … we're stumbling around in the dark with this thing. I don't know what to do. Yes, all right, my dad appeared and wrote me a letter. I've convinced myself we didn't dream it. A sign of the cross is burned—burned—into my chest. Okay, I'll accept that I've been chosen … but, damn it, honey … chosen to do what? I have to assume that I am to follow in my dad's footsteps; do what he did back in Whitfield in the fifties." He stopped at the edge of the deep timber and sat down on a large rock, Nydia beside him.
"Dad was trying to tell us something about our being related. But what? He said it wasn't a holy union. Does that make our feelings all right? I'm going to say it does. I can't help the way I feel about you. We were drawn together from the moment we met. You felt it, I felt it. And we'll just leave it at that.
"Mother always said I was just like my dad. I guess the service proved it: it … really doesn't bother me to kill. I can't say much about it, although I don't know what it would matter now, to you, I mean, but sometimes Special Troops have to kill. Cold-bloodedly. A very few get picked to do that. I got picked. I did my job. I came back to base. I did that several times. No guilt feelings. None at all. No remorse. No nothing. I think Dad must have been like that.
"Okay, then. I'll do whatever in the hell—that's an odd word to pick, isn't it—I'm supposed to do. I'm hearing voices in my head; words pop out of my mouth that are alien to me; I know things that mortals aren't supposed to know—and don't ask me to explain any of it. I can't. So I'll just have to wait until someone, or something, gives me the green light with instructions."
She put her arms around him and held him. And as has been the case for thousands of years, woman gave her strength to man through her touch, her gentleness, her understanding … and the fact that women are the more mercenary of the species.
"We'll both know when it's time, Sam," she told him, holding him. "I believe that. And I believe that our feelings for each other are right. And you must believe it."
Holding hands, they walked into the timber, and the silence of God's free nature seemed to make them stronger, and draw them closer. The mood was almost religious, the towering trees a nondenominational cathedral silently growing around the young couple. They came to a small, rushing creek and sat on a log by the bubbling waters.
"Tell me more about being a Christian, Sam."
"I don't know that much about it, Nydia. I … sometimes think it's a … feeling one must have. And I don't have it very often."
"I think you're a better person than you will admit to being, Sam."
"I've killed in cold blood," he said softly. "Before I was twenty years old."
"Yet you've been chosen by a higher power to do … something good here on earth."
He looked at her. "Killing your mother and brother, probably. Have you thought about that, Nydia?"
"Yes. But I have no feelings of love or affection for either of them, Sam. I don't recall the last time I felt anything for them. I've always felt like a stranger around them … out of place … unwanted and really unloved. I don't believe they know love. I'll put it stronger than that: they worship Satan, so how can they know love?"
His smile was gentle, full of admiration for her. And love.
"Do you believe in baptizing or sprinkling, Sam?"
"I was baptized when I was just a kid. Too young, really. You don't really understand what it's all about at twelve or thirteen. It's exciting … the thing to do. Yeah, I guess either one would do. I'm not even sure it's necessary. How about the thief on the cross?"
"I know that story. I want to be a Christian, Sam."
He looked at her. "I really hope the thoughts I'm picking up from you aren't correct."
"They are."
"I'm not a minister, Nydia. I'm not even a very good Christian. How can I baptize you?"
"Do you remember the words, Sam?"
"No. I really don't." He searched his memory. "Well … I remember what Jesus said to the eleven disciples after the rock had rolled away … or something like that."
"Oh, Sam!" She laughed at him, her laughter tinkling bells in the forest. "All right, that will have to do. So say them. Do it."