"Like I haven't been away from synagogue for fifty years."
"Doris?"
"Like a mountain of faith. Janey? I don't understand any of this. It's so baffling. Are we being tested? Is that it? If so, why? What have we done with our lives that makes us so worthy … or unworthy, as the case may be? What does Sam say?"
"He says we will all understand someday."
"How like him." Miles' reply was dryly put. "Stay strong, Jane Ann. Our prayers will be with you, at the end," the last words were filled with emotion.
"You know what is going to happen?"
Her old friend's silence told her he knew only too well.
"I'll talk to you later," she said. She hung up the phone and turned to face the rear wall of the den as she sensed Baton's presence. "Have you been away?" she asked the forming mist.
"Part of me," Balon projected.
"I won't ask how that is possible."
"You're learning."
"Eight more days," she said, some of her fear returning, changing the tone of her voice.
"Put it out of your mind," Balon told her. "Think only of how pleasant it will be later."
"I wonder how our son is doing?"
The mist seemed to smile. Balon said: "Our son has more going for him than he realizes."
"What do you mean?"
"Exactly what I said."
"Do you always speak in riddles?"
"I do not speak in riddles. Those who are not yet a part of my world do occasionally interpret my words as riddles."
She sighed. "It's hours past full dark, Sam."
A scream cut the night, a wail of agony so intense it sawed at Jane Ann's flesh like a knife with a dull cutting edge.
"I thought we were the only ones who would be subjected to … whatever?"
"No. There are people in this town, this locale, who have professed to be Christians. Their lives were lies. Liars, cheats, hypocrites, impostors pretending to serve the Lord God. Many of them. Now they beg for His mercy. But it is too late. It will not come."
"I thought our God was a just God, Sam?"
"He is. But humankind must help. Humankind was not put here on earth with a blank book, Janey. The book is the Word of God. Humankind understands that; they just won't—many of them—follow His Word. Now they must pay for their sins."
"Sam? Answer this for me, if you can: isn't it true that God answers all prayers?"
"Yes. In His own way."
"Drop the other shoe, Sam. In plain English."
The mist seemed to sigh, then projected: "More often than not, the answer is no."
ELEVEN
Sam and Nydia made it back to the mansion just seconds before the Coven members summoned by their Master arrived, pulling up to Falcon House in half a dozen automobiles and vans. The young man and woman stood in their quarters, the lights out, the rooms dark, watching the Devil worshipers leave the vehicles, walking up the steps to the house. Not all of them were willing participants: some fought the hands that held them; some were crying; a few were little more than children.
Nydia closed the drapes and stood for a moment, Sam's arms around her. "Those poor little girls down there," she sobbed, pressing her face against his chest, crying and trembling with fear. Finally, overcoming her terror and horror, she pulled away from her young man and turned on the bureau lamp. She looked at the bed, gasped, one hand flying to her mouth. She pointed.
On the bed was Sam's Bible, open, two chapters circled in red. And his beret, his Ranger beret he carried with him in his luggage, whenever he traveled, lying beside the Bible.
Sam was no longer shocked by the surprises that occurred around him; his mind had accepted the knowledge that there were some things that could not be explained … so be it. He walked to the bed, looked at his beret, touched it, then answered Nydia's as yet unasked question.
"I worked and sweated my butt off to get this. I'm very proud of it."
He touched the red that outlined the chapter in the :Bible.
"What … is it?" she asked.
"Blood. Marking Revelation, chapters twelve and thirteen."
"Blood! Whose blood?"
Sam shook his head. "I don't know. Let's read this."
They sat on the edge of the bed, reading in silence for a few moments, trying to comprehend the message contained therein.
"I've never read the Bible before," Nydia admitted. "Except for a few quick peeps at friends' homes. But it sounds absolutely fascinating."
"It is. Nydia, I don't understand any of this. What does the blood have to do with this?"
"There!" She pointed at a passage. She read aloud.
" 'And they overcame him by the blood of the lamb.' Could that be it?"
"I … don't think so. I just don't know. Mother said that my real father often told her the Bible was vague, given to many different interpretations. But look here … right there," he pointed, and read aloud, " 'And I saw one of his heads as it were wounded to death; and his deadly wound was healed; and all the world wondered after the beast.
" 'And they worshiped the dragon which gave power unto the beast: and they worshiped the beast, saying, Who is like unto the beast? who is able to make war with him?' "
They both read the remaining verses of the chapter in silence, Nydia finally saying, "It could mean so many things, Sam. Michael was a warrior, right?"
"One hell of a warrior."
"Sam … !" she gave him a disapproving look for his paradoxical statement. "Anyway … warriors fight. Blood is spilled … right?"
"Yeah," he admitted reluctantly. "Could be you're right."
"Is the beast the Devil?"
1 … guess so.
"You're a preacher's son, Sam. You're supposed to know these things."
"I'm a backslider, honey. Not a very good Christian."
She kissed his cheek. "I don't believe that, Sam. Not for a second. Michael cast out Satan, right?"
"That's what it says."
"So … of all the angels in Heaven, who would be the one most likely to help someone fight the Devil?"
Sam looked at her in the dim light. The look he gave her was of extreme uncertainty. "Are you … Nydia, are you saying that Michael is helping me? That he is here?"
"I don't know, Sam. Maybe he isn't here; maybe he doesn't have to be here, yet, to do these things."
"Yet?"
"Let me finish. Was your father a warrior?"
"A war hero. Yeah, he was a warrior."
"Who would he most likely make friends with … uh … up there?" She pointed upward.
"Honey, this is getting a little bit farfetched. When was the last time you recall any angels appearing here on earth?"
"Well … how would we know, really? I mean, people might not want to speak of the sighting, right?"
"You have a point. Yeah. For fear of being laughed at. I … seem to recall reading that Michael did appear to help—in some way—with Joan of Arc."
"All right. Your father had to have appeared to give you that envelope, didn't he? He's in Whitfield right now, isn't he?"
"Yeah. But my father isn't an angel."
"How do you know that?"
Sam shrugged. "I don't."
Before either could say another word, a light tap sounded at the door. Sam sighed heavily and stood up.
'Put away the Bible, Nydia. No sense tempting the gods—from either end of the spectrum."
He opened the door. Roma stood looking at him, her dark eyes burning with a strange light.
"Mrs. Williams. Excuse me: Roma," Sam corrected. "It's late for a social call, isn't it?"
"Oh, I assure you, Sam Balon King. This is no social call."
He smiled. "All bets down, the pot's right, and time for the last card, right?"
She laughed. "Oh, my dear, you are your father's son. Yes, darling, time for a little chat."
"Between good and evil?"
She shrugged, the movement lifting her breasts, and she noted that Sam noticed. She had changed into a gown of dark blue, floor length, cut low, the V dipping far into the swell of her breasts. "Good and evil, Sam? Well, perhaps. Tell me: how far have you taken my daughter into the candy-coated world of Christianity?"