"I'm his sister, remember? I've seen my brother naked on numerous occasions. None recently, thank God." She was gently leading him in the opposite direction of the wailing pleasure sounds.
"Must be gettin' good," Sam drawled.
"You're incorrigible! Remember, Sam: He has His eye on you."
"Before you get too pious, honey, remember the same applies to you."
She looked horrified. "I forgot about that."
They walked a full mile from the circle of stones before they spread the ground sheet Sam carried. He said, "We'll give them time to get it done, then wander down that way. I want to see this circle of stones and the hole in the ground."
She lay back on the ground sheet, her hands behind her head. Sam's eyes began wandering. "Don't get any ideas," she cautioned him, pointing upward. "He's watching."
A half continent away, many of the residents of Whitfield began answering the call of their Chosen Master, gathering in a huge clearing on the Zagone Ranch, whose eastern range bordered on the fenced-in area known as The Digging. While God did not interfere—directly—into the affairs on earth, at least not too often, and certainly never in any obvious manner, Satan was bound by no rules on earth, and could do anything the Dark One chose to do. And did—often.
There would be no interference from anyone in this part of Fork County. The Devil had seen to that. Should anyone travel through, all would appear normal, and no one would have any desire whatsoever to stop—for anything.
But the Dark One did not know that God also had plans for this part of Whitfield, and was already working.
This time, if all went according to Satan's plans—and the Prince of Darkness saw no reason why they should not—there would be no great billowing plumes of smoke from burning, exploding buildings; no racing about the county blowing up ranch houses and shooting people— none of that business this time. No, all would be handled a bit more sedately this time around. His followers could, of course, have a bit of fun: dance, sing, engage in their heretofore forbidden open orgies, all that type of mortal frivolity. Perhaps some human offerings would be fun. Certainly the Jew and Jewess and that idiot aging reporter and his simpering wife would die . . . and then … the Master of Grotesqueness would have his fun with Balon's bitch. That would be worth the waiting.
He pondered his options: whether to pass her around among the men until she died from exhaustion, or let the women have her. Perhaps have a pony mount her. That would certainly be an interesting sight. There were so many things to do with Balon's bitch.
Well, he had time to think things through. But … behind all his smugness, all his confidence that, at last, he would finally beat that Ageless Cosmic Meddler in the firmament … was the thought of that maverick resident of that miserable place: Balon.
Why did He allow Balon such liberties? That puzzled Beelzebub. Balon was not like many of the others; Balon was a relative newcomer. Of course, there had been many others before Balon, hundreds down through the years, but with few exceptions they had been such wimps, such a praying bunch of hand-wringing, psalm-singing sisters.
But not Balon. Balon, Mephistopheles concluded—had concluded, years ago—was a mother-fucker. And one fine warrior. It just wouldn't do to have many like him wandering about.
Perhaps, Satan thought … yes! Yes, there was a way. Maybe Balon would take it.
"Not a chance," the words ripped into Satan's thoughts.
"You have already extended yourself too much here on earth, Star-Wart," Satan replied. "Don't press your luck."
"You cannot tempt Balon."
"How do you know?"
"I know Balon."
"Bah! I think perhaps you have grown a bit too cocky of late. You forget, I know your limitations here on earth. I know exactly what you can and cannot do. I …"
"If you mention I one more time, Scratch … I will certainly interfere with your plans. Directly."
"You wouldn't dare!"
"Try me."
Satan was silent for a moment, smarting under the lash of words from the only thing in the universe he feared. "You will leave us alone here in Whitfield?"
"I didn't say that."
"I must have some agreement from you."
"I don't bargain with you "
"Not good enough."
"I will never bargain with you, Belial. You should know that by now."
"Afraid I might beat you, eh?"
The Heavens were silent.
"Oh, all right!" the Tempter pouted. "But you have to give me something to seal the bargain."
"I told you, Hooved-One: I do not bargain with you. Your slyness with words will not work with me."
"What is so special about Balon; You can tell me that, at least."
The Heavens were again silent.
"Ah! Of course!" the Mephistophelian voice cracked. "I see. Balon. Yes. You rather like him, don't you? You don't have to reply—I know. Yes, while your pet, Michael, is out flitting about the heavens, you'd like Balon sitting with you, eh? You do like your pet dogs, don't you? Is Michael there now?"
The Heavens rumbled as the archangel voiced his objection to being called a dog.
Satan laughed, and lightning licked across the sky. "Turn your militant maverick loose, Thunderer; let him face me. Let us see if his powers are as great as mine."
That was the wrong thing for the Dark One to suggest.
The Heavens were calm, even while Satan howled and cursed and called down malisons on all the residents of the firmament. He received no reply.
That enraged the ruler of filth. Satan fired his thoughts into the head of Jean Zagone. "You have sampled nearly all the men around you, bitch!" he said, still smarting from his conversation with the Holy One. "Pick five of the most virile and have them ready to receive Balon's pious whore."
And on the Zagone ranch, on the plains, the dancing began, preparatory to the Friday night sacrifice. The Coven members danced lewdly, hunching obscenely as they shouted filth to the Heavens. They were not afraid in their vocal and physical defilements, for the Prince of Evil had assured them his protection; guaranteed them a long and lustful life on earth.
These Coven members, these worshipers of Darkness, these students of Bell, Book, and Candle … they had made any number of mistakes in their evil lives. But paramount among them was believing anything the Devil said, while forgetting that the one True God is a vengeful God.
EIGHT
"Let's see how far our thoughts will carry," Sam suggested. "We'd better know, 'cause I think things are going to get down to the nut-cuttin' pretty quick."
"I do love your expressions, Sam," Nydia said, smiling. "I wonder if your father used the same colloquialisms? Bearing in mind he was a minister."
"Probably so. Mother often said he was a real character. Would speak his mind whenever and wherever."
"And yet, he has God's favor. I don't understand that. From what little I know of God's Word, I always thought of Christians as rather meek and mild types."
"Oh, I think that's a dangerous misconception, Nydia. God loves His warriors. I think Michael sits at God's side. Some even think he is God's bodyguard. Others think of him as the hand of retribution."
She glanced at him, thinking: Yes, I believe God does love His warriors.
They separated in the timber, walking first a few hundred yards apart, testing their ability to project and receive thoughts. They found that distance did make a difference in the receiving and sending.
"Let's go see this circle of stones," Sam said.
"What if we run into Black and Susan?"
He grinned at her, thinking how beautiful she was in the light filtering through the timber. "We'll just ask them how it was."
She playfully pushed him away. "Sam, you're impossible."
But the circle of stones was deserted when they got there. They looked for Black and Susan, finding only the still-pressed-down blanket of pine needles where they had lain.