The Devil's Heart (21 page)

Four hundred and seventy-seven, he thought smiling. Or was it four hundred and seventy-eight? "I am forty-eight years old, dear."

She twisted her lovely ass in the saddle and said, "Oh, that's young, Falcon!"

"Really? I'm glad you think so, dear. Now I have a confession to make: I'm sorry I'm married. For if I were a single man, I'd ask you out."

With her back to him, riding just a few feet in front, Lana said, "What does married have to do with anything?"

Falcon smiled. It never varies, he mused. The dialogue is as old as time. From the grunting of the cave people to the causerie of modern humankind. The language varies from country to country, but the nuances remain the same. "Take the trail to your left, Lana. There is something I want to show you." Other than what is between my legs.

"Where are we going?" she asked, no alarm in her voice.

"A private place of mine. I had it built some years ago. It's a place I use to get away from it all; to be alone."

"I'll bet it's lovely and lonely."

"And very private."

"Good. It's getting crowded back at the house."

Not nearly as crowded as your cunt will soon be. "I felt the same, Lana. One of the reasons I asked you to come with me." Which you will soon be doing.

A mile farther and the cabin came into view: a picture-postcard dwelling; an idyllic setting for romance.

A perfect locale for evil.

"Oh, Falcon, it's so lovely!" She twisted and smiled at him, the push of her full breasts against the buckskin jacket he had found for her arousing him, bringing almost to the surface the brute heat and endless depravity that constantly lay smoldering within him, just beneath the surface.

"Yes." His words were soft. "It is. But not nearly as lovely as you." How many times have I said that?

"You're just saying that."

"No, dear. I mean it. I like to be with you." He dismounted, loosening the cinch and looping the reins around a hitch post. He helped her from the saddle, and she deliberately rubbed against him, her hands lingering on his shoulders just a bit longer than necessary, her loins pushing against his crotch.

With her hands on his narrow waist, she asked, "Why do you like to be with me, Falcon? I mean, you have everything: wealth, charm . . . everything anyone could ask for."

"Everything except a loving wife."

"Oh, Falcon. But … Roma seems so … how do I say it? So … sexy."

"Outwardly, my dear. All that is but a show." He inwardly grimaced. This dialogue is maddeningly droll. Soap stuff. "She has not been a wife to me in years."

"That's so sad."

He pulled away from her and loosened the cinch on her horse, securing the reins.

"Why did you just pull away from me?"

"Because I did not wish you to get the wrong impression of me. I did not bring you up here to pour out my troubles or to seduce you. I like your company, and thought you might like to see my private hiding place. You're so lovely … I'm … afraid of my emotions."

Someday, Falcon thought, I must ask the Master to allow me to pursue a career in writing. Then he remembered he already had: back in the eighteenth century.

She walked to him, putting a small, soft hand on his arm. "There's no need to be afraid, Falcon. I know what it's like to want somebody; what it's like to be lonely."

He looked down at her, his smile sad and seemingly so very bittersweet. Falcon, he thought, you are a perfect son of a bitch. The tragic look on his face hid the evil that lay behind his obsidian eyes. "I have some truly excellent brandy inside, Lana. Shall we have a drink before we start back?"

She smiled. "We don't have to start back anytime soon, do we? After all, Falcon, we have all afternoon to … do whatever we choose."

"That's so true," he replied, and pushed open the door to Hell.

Somewhere in the depths of the great house, a thin wailing began. It could not be heard constantly, but rather only the high peaks of agony and fear, the thinnest shriekings at the zenith of pain.

"Can't you do something?" Nydia asked.

They were in Sam's room, Linda napping just across the hall, the door to her room slightly ajar.

"What would you have me do?" Sam asked. "I don't even know where the kids are being held. I can't go prowling, I'd be stopped before I got started. That's what your mother wants, honey. Me to start trouble."

"She isn't my mother," Nydia said. "And I will never again think of her as such. And don't you."

The awful wailing ceased abruptly, ending on a note of pain and terror.

"Maybe it's over?" Nydia suggested, a hopeful tone to her question.

"It's just begun," Sam said, shattering any illusions she might have had.

"What are they doing to her?"

"Use your imagination," he said flatly. "I'm sure you'll come up with something."

"The young girl mot … that bitch talked about at breakfast—the twelve- or thirteen-year-old?"

"I'm sure."

The screaming began anew.

Then Nydia asked the question Sam was dreading to hear, but knowing it was coming. "If your God—our God—is such a just God, why is He allowing this to happen?"

"I can't answer that question, Nydia. I don't believe any mortal could give you a satisfactory reply to that, and I'm equally certain it's been asked ten million times a day, since the beginnings of religion."

She looked at him, with Sam very much aware of the heat in her eyes, and the heat did not come from just her anger at what was happening somewhere in the mansion.

"No, Nydia," he said quietly.

"I love you, Sam."

"And I love you. But the answer is still no."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Take a cold shower."

"I don't want to take a cold shower. I want you. What would be the harm?"

The words roared into Sam's head: "And when woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree to be desired to make one wise, she took of the fruit thereof, and did eat, and gave also unto her husband with her; and he did eat."

"Can't you see what's happening, Nydia? You're being tempted. The Dark One is everywhere in this house; in every room, in every object. Fight it."

"Sam!" she moaned. "I want you to fuck me!"

"Fight it!"

She came to him, tearing off her shirt, ripping the garment from her. She tore off her bra and grabbed at his hands, placing them on her breasts, the nipples hard against his palms. She held his hands there, as she worked her loins against him. "Don't you want me, Sam? Please. Let me suck you, Sam. I want to take you in my mouth.

I …"

He slapped her, slapped her open-handed, rocking her head back. He brought his hand back across her face, backhanding her, stunning her. A tiny drop of blood appeared on her mouth, where a lip had smashed against a tooth.

He laid her across the bed and ran to the bathroom for a wet towel. There was a strange roaring in his head, as visions so erotic they startled him began playing against the forces of good that reared up within him. Pictures of Nydia with her naked legs spread wide, her lushness open, waiting to receive him. Her hands worked at her erect nipples, pinching them, with her begging him to hurt her, bite her, fuck her.

Sam slammed a hard fist against the bathroom wall as the eroticism grew stronger, battling in his mind. A technicolor picture of him with his face pressed against her mons veneris, tonguing her into incredible wetness, while her hands wormed over his naked body. And then an invisible force slammed him against the wall, holding him immobile as the scenes of carnality grew wilder: Nydia with her long black hair fanned out over his belly, his penis in her mouth, her fingers caressing him as her tongue worked at his stiffness.

"Sam!" Nydia called from the bed, and he forced his head to turn and his eyes to open at her cries. "Oh, God, Sam—help me!"

She lay with her jeans wadded around one ankle, her panties ripped from her. Her fingers were busy between her legs, working in and out of the dark wetness.

Summoning all his strength, Sam pushed away from the wall and staggered into the bedroom, a wet towel in his hand. He washed Nydia with the cold, dripping towel, one hand forcing her fingers from her womanhood.

Her eyes were wild as she fought him, and she was strong in her fury, lashing out at him. When she found he was winning physically, she changed tactics, under the commands of a Master over which she had no control. She softened under him, her hands at her side, letting Sam gently bathe her nakedness with the cold, wet towel. She lifted one hand, placing the palm against his cheek.

"I'm sorry, Sam. I don't know what came over me."

"The Devil was tempting you. It's all right, now. It's over."

She slipped her hand from his face to his neck, gently drawing his mouth to hers, finding no resistance as their lips touched. Slyly, she slipped her tongue between his lips, working hotly into his mouth, and finding him responding to her.

Sam's hands found her breasts, caressing them. His hand slipped downward, to part her legs, to enter the wetness of woman ready.

Then, from the deep well within her, good burst forth, for the moment overpowering evil. She harshly pushed him away. "No, Sam. Get away. It's not over—can't you see?"

Almost violently, he pulled away from her nakedness. She covered herself with a sheet. "Read to me from the Bible, Sam," she hissed the request through clenched teeth. "Read to me."

Fighting back passions suddenly unleashed within him, emotions so wild and hot Sam was filled with fear, he grabbed for the Bible and flung it open.

"Read to me!" she screamed.

The book had opened to the General Epistle of James, and it seemed at first to be an odd place to begin. But as Sam read, a smile came to his lips as the text began unfolding on the source of temptation. Gradually, Nydia's breathing slowed and she rose from the bed and dressed, asking Sam to reread that passage about temptation. He did, and felt the room suddenly clear of all that is dark and foul and evil.

"It's over," Nydia said. "I can feel it, can't you?"

"Yes." Sam closed the Bible.

"I suppose we can expect more of the same?"

"Until Thursday night, at least."

She looked at him.

"That's when it'll really get rough," he explained.

She glanced at the still ajar bedroom door. "Linda didn't wake up, and we got pretty loud."

Sam shrugged it off. "She's probably a sound sleeper."

Nydia chose not to reply.

The young screaming began in the dark, evil depths of the mansion.

With the lighting in the room reduced to several flickering candles, and the fireplace popping and crackling, Lana held out her glass for a refill. Her third. "I've never tasted brandy like this. It's so good and smooth."

"It's rather expensive," Falcon admitted, tilting the decanter, filling her snifter past the point a brandy connoisseur would go.

"I like expensive things," she said, licking her lips.

"Oh?" Falcon arched an eyebrow expressively, the roguish gesture speaking volumes of understanding garnered through centuries of inamorata.

"Yes. I think I'll look for a rich man."

"I wish you success in your quest. You're speaking in terms of marriage, of course?"

She shrugged. "Not necessarily. I have a lot to offer the right man."

"Your beauty, of course. And your intelligence."

"And my virginity."

Falcon chuckled unbelievingly.

"You don't believe me?"

"I didn't mean that, my dear. It's just that in this day of sexual promiscuity, a virgin would be a priceless item."

"Well … I am," she said, pouting playfully.

The brandy was taking its toll on the young woman, loosening her tongue, lessening any inhibitions she may have had. "I like older men," she said flatly. "Guys my own age are so dumb. All they want to talk about is how fast their stupid cars will run, or how bad they are. I think guys my own age are really gross."

Falcon sat beside her on the leather couch. "Well, I am certainly glad I am beyond that adolescent silliness of having to prove how macho I am to young ladies who really don't care."

"Oh, lots of girls like that shit."

Falcon winced.

"Did I say something?"

He made his move. "Well … if I am to keep you in pretty clothes, expensive automobiles, and a purse full of money, I think I'd better work on your grammar, as well."

"You're going to do all that for me?"

"Would you like that?"

"What do I have to do to earn it?"

He looked at her with his unreadable eyes, dark and hooded. "Only that which is usually required in any arrangement of that type."

"And that is?"

"You tell me, dear."

The gold digger in her sprang to the surface. "I don't mean to be crude, I really don't, but I'd want it in writing."

"Then you shall certainly have it, darling."

"Just like that?"

"Oui."

"I don't speak much French. You'll have to teach me."

"I shall teach you many things, darling. Be assured of that."

"Why me, Falcon? You could have your choice of half the women in the world. I'm just a nineteen-year-old kid."

"You appeal to me. In many ways."

"Will I have to worship the Devil, too?"

That set him back. A grin creased his mouth, then he was roaring with laughter. He reached into his jacket pocket and removed a handkerchief made of the finest linen, wiping his eyes. "So, Lana, dear, Black badly misjudged you, eh?"

"Black is an idiot, and you know it."

"Only too well, my dear. I thought I had you convinced the other evening."

"You were wrong. A lot of people usually are about me. But that doesn't answer my question."

"I was under the impression you were a devout Christian."

"I still have my virginity, Falcon, but as far as me being a Christian … I used to jack-off the preacher back home."

That startled Falcon, and the warlock was not easily jarred. "I beg your pardon?"

"Yeah, his wife didn't like sex, and he'd had the hots for me since I was about eleven. So we made a deal. I'd give him a hand job several times a week and he'd give me money. More money for a blow job."