"Balon, dear. Both of them."
"But Sam Balon is dead, Mother. He is of the Other Side. He cannot be killed again."
She took his arm and guided him into the study, motioning him to sit. "Black, understand something, dear: Balon is very close to being chosen by … Him." She gestured upward with a carefully manicured finger. "Chosen to sit with Him."
"God likes His warriors," Black said.
"That is correct. But we don't want that to happen."
"Why?"
Roma sighed. Sometimes she felt she had birthed an idiot. "If for no other reason, son, to humiliate Him. To show Him He is not infallible."
Her son nodded his head, narrowing his eyes. "You think Balon will show up here?"
"Not necessarily. We'd rather he wouldn't. You see, if he stays in Whitfield, the temptation to help his darling beloved Jane Ann—that simpering little cunt—will be even more overpowering."
"I see." Black's reply was slow. "And if Balon tries to interfere, he will lose his seat beside God; come under much disfavor."
"Marvelous, Black," his mother's reply was edged with sarcasm. "There is hope for you yet."
The look the son gave was laced with hate. "I'm not a fool, Mother."
You'll be worse than a fool should you attempt to plot further against me, Roma thought. But her eyes remained cool. "I never suggested you were, Black. You're just young, that's all."
Black blinked, then vanished from the couch, to materialize in his room. How unimpressive, Roma thought. He can't even do that well. She sat alone in the study for a time, her thoughts many.
She wondered: When I was his age, was I that naive?
She ruefully admitted that it was difficult to remember. At that age, Louis XI was King of France and Columbus had a few years to go before conning the queen out of her jewels. And probably some pussy, Roma thought.
She thrust her eyes to the upstairs, to her son's room, grimacing as she watched him sitting in a chair, rubbing his shins. The fool had banged his legs when he materialized.
This will have to be my coup de grace, she realized, not without some sadness. I am more than five hundred years old, I am tired, and have been everything from a whore to a nun; the former, she grimaced, much more preferable to the latter. If I can bring this off, I will assure myself a place by the smoking side of the Master. If I can somehow impregnate myself with Sam's seed—without cheating, too much—and if Nydia is a Christian and Falcon can plant his seeds within her … then we can leave the finest demons ever to walk the earth.
"Yes," the heavy voice cut into her head. "That would please me, assuring you a seat beside me."
Roma stiffened, asking, "How long have you been listening?"
"Long enough to realize that your son is a fool. Your son, not Balon's bastard."
"You know my son schemes against me?"
"My, how the plot thickens!" the devil howled with dark, burning laughter. "More and more curious, eh?"
The Lord of Flies grew silent. The room became warm. . Roma remained still, waiting.
"Your foolish son is no match for Balon's boy-child of love, ancient one."
"I'm not that old."
"You're too old to be thinking of birthing any more children. You have many more years ahead of you on earth, serving me. You know to birth a demon at your age would mean death. It is written. And, Witch, remember this: there is no guarantee the demon would live."
Roma said, "He would—possibly they would—if you took a hand."
"Impossible."
"You mean you have given your word?" The question was put sarcastically.
The Lord of Foulness chuckled. "Not necessarily. In part, perhaps."
"Nothing firm, then. So it is possible?"
"All things are possible, Roma-Nydia-Victoria-Adora-Zena-Ulrica-Willa-Toni-Sibyl … have I left any out?"
"Several," she said dryly, knowing the Master was reminding her of her age.
"All right, Roma: But what assurances do I have that you and Falcon will produce one of our own, and not some simpering, praying, puky Christian child?"
"If you take a hand, it is guaranteed. And then there is this: we can produce true demons."
"Nonsense! The last time that happened was more than a hundred years ago. Still …"
"It would be a coup against Him, would it not?"
"Yes." Just the thought of Him irritated the Master of Shit. "But you know to produce a true demon means excruciating pain; hours of unparalleled agony, and certain death for the Witch."
"I will do it for you, Master."
"Thank you. Very well, it is up to you, Roma. Do you remember the formula?"
"Yes."
"You may begin. I will help as I can."
Roma sat very quietly in the study as the roaring in her head changed from a howling, burning cacophony to a rush of colors, finally softening to a muted whisper before dying away.
Roma smiled. It was settled. She went in search of The Book.
In Sam's room, neither young person was surprised to see a large, canvas-covered object lying on the bed.
"Want to bet I can't tell you what's in that canvas?" Sam asked.
"No bet."
He opened the canvas pouch. A World War II issue .45 caliber Thompson submachine gun. A fully loaded drum and three fully loaded clips lay beside the weapon. A dozen boxes of .45 caliber ammunition made up the complement of lethal armament.
"Sam … ?"
"Don't ask. I can't answer your question. But you know as well as I where it came from."
"Your dad." It was not a question from her lips.
"Or one of his friends."
"I don't understand that."
Sam glanced at her while one hand rested on the old powerful Thompson. "God likes his warriors. Dad was a warrior. He would have warrior friends in … where he is. And, like it or not, I guess I'm a warrior."
"That gives me an eerie feeling."
"I'd hate to tell you what it gives me."
She read his thoughts. "Sam! Don't be sacrilegious."
He grinned boyishly. "I'm not. Just telling the truth."
She blushed, then gestured upward. "I'm not too certain what He would think about you having the … shits over a job you've been chosen to do—by Him."
"I'm sure He knows the feeling, Nydia. He made man in His image."
"You're a very lovely young lady," Falcon told Lana, smiling down at her. "I cannot imagine why the young men aren't chasing after you." And he could not rest the feeling that this young lady was hiding something.
"Are you really interested in knowing, Mr. Falcon?"
"Of course."
It was early afternoon at Falcon House, the sky gathering great dark clouds in advance of a storm. Falcon and Lana were alone in the downstairs study. The library room.
She gazed up into his dark eyes, eyes that masked the hunter's look. "Because I don't like what they do."
Falcon arched an eyebrow. "Oh? And what is it they do that is so repugnant to you?"
She walked to the great doors that separated the library from the study and closed them. She smiled as she became aware of the older man's eyes on her shapely derriere. She turned, walking slowly back to Falcon. "They practice Devil worship."
His laughter seemed out of place among the books that lined the walls. "Oh, my dear," he said, wiping his eyes. "Don't tell me you fell for that old joke? I thought Black had long ago given up that line."
"Joke?" Her eyes narrowed.
He placed a hand on her slender shoulder. "Just a joke, dear. Black has a rather … macabre sense of humor. But," he held up a warning finger, "don't let him—or anyone else—know I tipped his hand. Play along with the bon mot—excuse me, joke—right up to the end. It will be our secret."
"You mean that … you mean they don't practice Devil worship?"
"Oh, heavens no!" Falcon inwardly cringed at the hated word, hoping his Master would forgive him his blasphemy. "Oh, we'll have a fine old time with this, you and I. Just when Black thinks he has you convinced, we'll jump up and turn the tables on him. He'll be hysterical; he'll see the joke. Black has a fine sense of humor."