The Devil’s Heart – Read Now and Download Mobi

Name: The Devil's Heart
ISBN: 9780671793258

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It was in the summer of 1958 that the horror surfaced in the town of Whitfield, erupting like a festering boil, spewing its corruption on everyone near it. Those who survived the terror remember it as the summer of The Digging – the time when the hot wind began to blow, when Satan’s creatures rose from the putrid bowels of the earth, when the inhabitants of Whitfield were touched by… THE DEVIL’S KISS. Now it was summer again in Whitfield. The town was peaceful, quiet, and unprepared for the atrocities to come. Eternal life, everlasting youth, an orgy that would span time – that was what the Lord of Darkness was promising the coven members in return for their pledge of love. The few who had fought against his hideous powers before, believed it could never happen again. Then the hot wind began to blow – as black and as evil as THE DEVIL’S HEART

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William W. Johnstone

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9780786010042

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FEAR OF THE BEAST

"Come on up," Sam shouted. "Let me see you!"

And one Beast did just that. A young Beast, lacking the caution of age, leaned forward, just a few feet from the cave opening. It roared at the young man, its breath stinking. Sam shot it between the eyes, then stood smiling as the dead creature tumbled backward. It would not be wasted. Its relatives would feast on the cooling flesh and still-warm blood, sucking marrow from the bones.

"One less," Sam said, spitting contemptuously on the ground. After he walked away from the rancid hole, a huge old Beast stuck its head out of the den. He had been on this earth for many hundreds of years, and was old and wise, as Beasts go. He had never known a human without fear—until now.

Growling, the Beast slipped back into the earth to warn the others of this human; tell them to stay away. For he was not like the other humans: He had been touched … by the Other Side.

A TERRIFYING OCCULT TRILOGY

by William W. Johnstone

THE DEVIL'S KISS (2109, $3.95)

As night falls on the small prairie town of Whitfield, red-rimmed eyes look out from tightly shut windows. An occasional snarl rips from once-human throats. Shadows play on dimly lit streets, bringing with the darkness an almost tangible aura of fear. For the time is now right in Whitfield. The beasts are hungry, and the Undead are awake.

THE DEVIL'S HEART (2110, $3.95)

It was the summer of 1958 that the horror surfaced in the town of Whitfield. Those who survived the terror remember it as the summer of The Digging—the time when Satan's creatures rose from the bowels of the earth and the hot wind began to blow. The town is peaceful, and the few who had fought against the Prince of Darkness before believed it could never happen again.

THE DEVIL'S TOUCH (2111, $3.95)

The evil that triumphed during the long-ago summer in Whitfield still festers in the unsuspecting town of Logan-dale. Only Sam and Nydia Balon, lone survivors of the ancient horror, know the signs—the putrid stench rising from the bowels of the earth, the unspeakable atrocities that mark the foul presence of the Prince of Darkness. Hollow-eyed, hungry corpses will rise from unearthly tombs to engorge themselves on living flesh and spawn a new generation of restless Undead … and only Sam and Nydia know what must be done.

Available wherever paperbacks are sold, or order direct from the Publisher. Send cover price plus 50¢ per copy for mailing and handling to Zebra Books, Dept. 2110, 475 Park Avenue South, New York, N. Y. 10016. Residents of New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania must include sales tax. DO NOT SEND CASH.

BY WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE

ZEBRA BOOKS

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP

ZEBRA BOOKS

are published by:

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
475 Park Avenue South
New York, N.Y. 10016

Fifth printing: May, 1992

Printed in the United States of America

To A. E. J. and C. W. J.

Stay with me God. The night is dark, The night is cold: my little spark of courage dies. The night is long; be with me God, and make me strong.

—Poem found on a scrap of paper in a slit trench in Tunisia during the battle of El Agheila—1944.

December

The town of Whitfield no longer exists. Very little of the northwestern part of Fork County exists, except in the memories of those who might once have lived there and were fortunate enough to be gone when the great fireball struck, searing the land for miles.

Scientists were stunned by the suddenness of the huge fireball, for it seemed to materialize out of the heavens, traveling at such a tremendous speed it was almost beyond calculation.

Where had it come from? the scientists were asked by a stunned population.

From straight out of the sun was the reply.

And you could not have predicted it?

No.

Why?

The scientists hedged that question, for many of them were sworn, avowed atheists. But finally, one man from an observatory in California who was not an unbeliever did reply, although not to the satisfaction of all his colleagues. His reply brought laughter from more than a few of his fellow scientists.

"How does one predict when the hand of God will fall? And how hard the blow will be?"

If indeed it had been, as the scientist said, "the hand of God," it had been a mighty slap from Him.

By the time various Spies in the Skies satellites picked up on the cannonading mass of fiery destruction, it was already on top of the satellites, through them, burning them before they could photograph more than a one-second shot at best, and transmit that to earth. Those pictures that did make it back to earth were immediately ordered seized by presidential order. They would be released for public viewing … sometime. At a date that would be set … sometime.

"Why?" came the immediate one-word question from the press.

The president did not tell them the real reason for his order. He did not tell them because he did not want them to think he was nuts. He did not tell them for a number of reasons, but chiefly because he could not think of a reasonable way to tell people that he had been visited by someone ... or something ... in a dream (or was it a dream?) who had forewarned him of the terrible, cataclysmic fireball of death. So he put the monkey on the backs of the military, telling the press it was in the best interest of the nation that the matter not be discussed for a time. It had to be studied and all that. Probably for a very long time.

And the president warned that should there be any leaks—any leaks at all—the leakee would spend the rest of his lengthy tour of duty attempting to hand-carry snowballs between Fort Myers and Miami, along the Tamiami Trail, without benefit of insect repellent.

There were no leaks.

The ball of fire that leveled Whitfield and parts of Fork County was, some scientists said, more than a mile wide and about three miles deep. Some said it was shaped like a Star of David. Others said it looked like an artist's conception of God's face; a striking resemblance. The president told the scientists to shut their damned mouths, too, or face the prospects of never receiving another dime of government money—for anything. But many people witnessed the strange blue lights that preceded the crash of the . . . whatever the hell it was, and they asked about those lights.

But suddenly, all was quiet about the mighty ball of fire, except for speculation, and that soon began to fade as other news pushed the holocaust out of the headlines. Only the insurance companies were left to ponder over the crash and dole out large sums of money to the relatives of those who had been killed.

An astronomer in California thought he knew what had happened. But he kept his mouth shut. Not out of any fear of the government, but because he felt it was the right thing to do.

One investigative fellow did put some rather interesting and curious events together after a bit of prowling. But since he was a career army reservist and did not wish to spend his summer obligations to Uncle Sam cleaning up gooney bird shit on Guam, he kept his mouth shut. Someday, maybe, he'd write a book about it. Maybe. But only if he could be assured the protection of the Dalai Lama in some cave in Tibet.

What he had pieced together was this: at almost the precise moment of fiery impact with earth, a series of fires leveled a huge mansion in Canada. And just before that, something had been seen leaving earth, moving toward the heavens, traveling at tremendous speed. No one knew what that thing was. Or if they did, they weren't talking. And there were people who still remained unaccounted for after the fire at the mansion. One of them was a young man named Sam Balon King, whose stepfather had been a doctor in Whitfield, and whose mother had once been married to a minister … in Whitfield. And that minister had died under very mysterious circumstances, back in 1958, when another disaster had befallen that tragedy-ridden community.

But the investigative reporter wisely closed his journal on both disasters … for a time, at least.

PROLOGUE

It had been abnormally hot for this late in the season.

By this time in northwestern Nebraska there was usually a lash of winter's approach in the air, a bite that brought color to the cheeks of pedestrians, urgently but softly speaking of the harsh winter just ahead.

But the winds that blew across the plains and rolling sand hills had a torrid touch, oppressively so, bringing a sudden surliness to the people of this sparsely populated county, turning most tempers raw and confusing a few as to why.

The many knew why. The few would learn too late. And out in the badlands, some miles from Whitfield, inside a fenced-in area where horror sprang to life back in the late 1950s … something stirred. A creature cautiously stuck its head out of a hidden cave and looked around, viewing its surroundings through evil, red eyes. The Beast had felt the hot fingers of the wind pushing through the cave entrance as a probing hand might do, signaling those which serve another Master that it was time.

The Dark One was near.

The wind grew in strength and heat, the Beast snarling in reply. The manlike creature rose from its sentry position to crawl out of the filthy hole, rising to stand like a human, bits of dust and twigs and blowing sand striking its hairy body. But to the Beast, it was a signal of love, a gesture of welcome. The Beast roared, its breath foul. It held its huge arms upward and shook its fists toward the sky, roaring its contempt for that God who occupies a more lofty position than the Master of the Beast. For the creature knew but one God: the Prince of Darkness; the Lord of Flies; Ruler of all that is Evil.

From behind the sentry came a guttural sound, as other Beasts rose from their long sleep, surly and hungry. They craved meat, and the sweet taste of blood.

But the sentry again tested the wind, and the wind spoke its reply: wait. The sentry held up one warning paw to those below it, holding them at bay. He growled, and the others drew back into the darkness of the evil-smelling hole in the earth. They knew they must obey.

Wait, the growling sentry told them. The Master will tell us when we may move. Be patient, for you have waited more than twenty years, a few more weeks won't matter. Wait.

ONE

"You're late getting home," the woman said, a flatness in her voice, as if she knew the reason for his tardiness.

"Yes. Very difficult labor," the man lied.

Jane Ann King smiled ruefully, but kept her thoughts to herself.

"Is that a letter from Sam?" Doctor King asked his wife. He really didn't give a damn, but anything was better than having to listen to her run her mouth asking endless questions and not believing anything he told her.

Jane Ann nodded.

"What does he say?"

She drugged. "I haven't opened it."

Tony laughed. "Why the hell not?"

His laughter infuriated her. She sighed, rising from her chair, walking to a corner table. "Let me show you something, Tony." A Bible rested on the table. Sam Balon's Bible. The Sam her son was named after. The son did not yet know how and why his real father had died. But that time of unawareness was rapidly coming to a close.

Jane Ann said, "When I got the letter this morning, I was just about to open it when the phone rang. I put the letter on the Bible on my way to the phone."

Oh, fuck! Tony thought. Who in the hell cares? He held up a hand. "Wait a minute, baby. I can sense this is going to take half the night. It's been a long day. I'm beat. Let me fix a drink." He smiled. "You want one, baby?"

"You know I don't, Tony. But you fix yourself one. Fix yourself a strong one." She could smell the odor of sex in his clothing, and wondered which female he had serviced this time. She realized she hated her husband. And had for a long time. No, she amended that … not hate. Rather—she searched for the right word—I loathe not him, but what he has become.

"Thanks a lot." Tony walked to the wet bar, fixing a strong drink. "Go on, tell your story," he said. But goddamn, keep it short.

"I'll skip the details, since I realize you aren't particularly interested in them … and not much of anything else that lives in this house. The letter won't stay on the Bible, near the Bible, or on the bookcase next to the Bible. It won't stay … on a level with the Bible." She did not tell him she had called Wade, telling him about it first.

Tony looked at the Bible. How he hated that book; he didn't like to get too close to the offensive book. But he took the letter from his wife's hand and placed it on the Bible. It flipped off onto the floor. Tony took a large gulp of whiskey and again took the letter, placing it back on the Bible. Again, the letter was propelled off the Word of God. No matter where Tony placed the letter—on a level with the Bible—it would not stay.

He silently rejoiced, keeping his face passive. He had an idea what was happening, and thought Jane Ann did, too. She was beginning to suspect.

Outside, the wind picked up in strength, tossing bits of rock and twigs against the house. The hot wind seemed almost to be a signal.

Tony placed the letter under the front cover of the Bible. The small table began to shake as the Bible seemed to press against the letter. The table suddenly collapsed, sending Bible and letter to the floor. Jane Ann picked up the Bible and placed it on a shelf. Tony grabbed the letter, looked at it, then shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was full of shock and awe … and something else Jane Ann could not understand.

"Goddamn!" Tony swore.

Reverend Sam Balon had written his name in that Bible when he had first received it, back in the late forties. But such pressure had been placed on the letter that the name Sam Balon was now clearly visible upon the white of the envelope. Tony quickly placed the letter on a low coffee table.

Jane Ann was watching him closely. She thought she could see pleasure in his eyes. And something else: evil.

"Impossible," Tony said. "Unless … " His words trailed it off as he realized that the Master of Darkness was truly coming. Perhaps he was already here! He had to get to Jean Zagone. Had to tell the Coven Leader of this. She would be pleased at this astuteness. Perhaps reward him with some nice, young girl.

"Unless what, Tony?" His wife's hated voice brought him back to his surroundings. He glanced at her. Her face was pale, eyes calm, hands clenched into fists at her side.

"Nothing," he said.

"Well … I think Sam is trying to tell us something."

"Oh, shit! Sam is dead, Jane Ann. More than twenty years dead." Tony hoped Balon wasn't trying to tell anybody anything.

"As we knew him, yes, he is dead. But his soul is alive. We're mortals, Tony. We don't know what is behind the veil. And remember, Sam was touched by Him—chosen by Him, if you will."

"I don't believe that crap anymore," he said, the words tumbling hatefully from his mouth.

And Jane Ann's worst suspicions were now corroborated. She wanted to slap her husband.

His mood shifted as he forced himself to put his arms around her. He kissed her cheek and found it cool to his lips, very unresponsive. "Honey, we're the youngest of the survivors of that … incident. And we're not kids." He grinned down at her. "But you're sure sexy enough to be a kid."

She pushed him away from her. His body odor was awful. She could not remember the last time Tony had showered. More evidence against him. She walked swiftly from the room, returning in a moment with an 8 x 10 glossy of the late Sam Balon. The picture was in a frame with a glass front.

Tony's eyes narrowed at the sight of the minister. He hated that bastard. He reached out to take the picture from her.

"No!" She spun away from his hand.

"You think your precious Sam Balon is some kind of fucking saint? That he's sending you messages? Hell, baby, maybe he just wants some pussy."

"Pick up the letter!" she said, speaking through gritted teeth.

For some reason, unexplained in his mind, Tony was suddenly afraid of his wife. He picked up the letter without questioning her.

"Hold it against the glass," she said, lifting the framed photograph. There was a knowing smile on her lips that angered the man.

Tony pressed the letter against the glass. Within seconds, the envelope began to smoke. She jerked the letter from his hands before the smoke turned into a blaze. The front of the envelope was slightly charred.

She looked up at her husband, a smile on her lips. "Yes, Tony, I believe Sam is trying to tell me something. What's the matter, darling? You seem . . . afraid."

On Friday nights, the chanting would begin as no more than a low murmur in the hot night, then grow as the winds picked up in heat and velocity. The chanting would become as profane as it was evil.

The participants in this macabre chanting would gather around a huge stone circle, miles from Whitfield. There were carvings in the stones. On one stone, two figures were depicted: a saintly looking man and a beastly man-creature with hooved feet. The creature and the saint have been there for thousands of years, locked in silent combat, with no apparent winner.

This area was known as The Digging, the ruins of equipment and rusting old mobile homes still evident. The entire area is enclosed within a tall chain-link fence Roads to the area were destroyed in the fall of 1958. Only in the last few years have they been quietly reopened by some local people. The state bought the land and condemned it because of the dangerous caves in the area. So they said.

This was the area where, for centuries, sightings of monsters have been reported: hairy, ugly beasts with red eyes and huge clawed hands and large yellow, dripping fangs.

All nonsense, of course.

Suddenly the chanting would cease. The silence would grow heavy. The wind ceased its hot push.

And the screaming would begin, the agonizing, wailing pushing past lips, tearing out from a human whose skin was being slowly ripped from its body; who was undergoing more sexual depravity than was ever thought of by de Sade … in his blackest moments. The shrieking would continue for hours, the torches of the now silent witnesses to evil flickering in the night, turning the blood-stained altar dripping a slippery black.

The screaming would gradually change into a madness-induced moan, then into alow sob. And then silence. And then one by one the torches would cease their flickering fiery quiver and the area known as The Digging would become as black as the Devil's heart. And as still as a musty grave.

Dear Mom and Dad:

Sure is a change from the sand hills where I grew up, but I love it here at Nelson College. And guess what?: I'm rooming with a guy whose name is Sam B. Williams.

"I wonder what the B stands for?" Jane Ann asked.

"I don't give a damn what it stands for," Tony said. "Just read the damn letter."

Sam B. (he's called Black) has a really super-fine sister; she's going to school at Carrington College—that's just upriver from us. Black is going to fix me up with her soon; said he told her all about me and she's really anxious to meet me.

"I wonder what her name is?" Jane Ann asked. The name Black had triggered an old alarm within her.

Tony wished she would just toss the letter in the garbage and shut her fucking mouth.

I'm going home with them over the Thanksgiving holiday to meet their parents. They live up in Canada, right on the edge of Province Park—really wild and beautiful. Black said it's miles from any neighbors. I'm really looking forward to it. Black and I have a lot in common: we both spent three years in the military. He was in some Canadian outfit, paratroop-commando, and, of course, you all remember me: Ranger Sam. Black and I have done some skydiving together, and we've talked about a long camp-out this spring. Maybe his good-looking sister will go along, keep me warm? (Just a joke, Mom.)

Got to go. Will call later.

Love,
Sam

Tony stood up. "Very interesting letter. I have to go, Jane Ann."

"I want to know who this Black fellow is," Jane Ann said. "And I'd like to know more about his sister."

"I'm not going to sit here and argue with you, Janey. I don't give a damn what you do."

"I've realized that for a number of years, Tony. What did you mean about us being the youngest of the survivors?"

He shrugged. "Well … Miles and Doris, Wade and Anita … they're all in their sixties—all retired. Neither man is in good health. And for the last few weeks … neither Wade nor Miles has acted … well, friendly toward me."

"Since the hot wind began blowing?"

"Yeah, if you just have to connect it that way."

Across town a phone rang. Wade Thomas quickly silenced the jangling. "All right, Doris. Sure, I can come over. I know, I'll be careful. Miles wants to build a what? What the hell is a golem? Are you serious! Okay, I'll be right over." He hung up, his face holding an odd look.

"What's wrong with Miles?" Anita asked.

"Doris says he's cracked. Says the old momzer s nuts."

"What's a momzer?"

"I have no idea. But I'll bet you it isn't complimentary."

"Well, what's a golem?"

"Ah … well, Doris says it's a kind of monster made out of clay, endowed with life. A protector, sort of."

The man and wife exchanged glances. Anita shrugged.

Wade came to her, putting his arm around her shoulders. "Honey …-?"

"No, Wade." She was firm. "I don't believe it's happening. Not again. I will not leave our home."

"It is happening, Anita. And you know it."

"You go see Miles. I'll be all right."

Tony lit a cigarette, ignoring Jane Ann's shocked look. "Tony, you haven't smoked in years!"

"Well, I started again. It's my business, not yours."

"How is your practice, Tony?"

He shrugged. "You've been seeing a lot of Wade and Anita lately, haven't you. And that damned ol' Jew."

And with that remark about Miles, she knew all pretense had been ripped away. "You want me to leave this house, Tony?"

"I don't give a damn what you do."

"1 see."

"Look, Janey …"

"Don't say another word, Tony," The warning was softly spoken, but it held firm conviction.

"I may or may not return this evening."

"Your choice, Tony. But I think you've already made the most important choice."

He looked at her, his eyes hooded and evil. He nodded his head and walked out into the night.

Across the street, at the Cleveland home, eyes watched his movements, then lifted to the woman standing in the door. In her mid-forties, Jane Ann was still a very beautiful and shapely woman, with the ability to turn men's heads as she walked past.

Jane Ann lifted her eyes as the feeling of being watched touched her. The Cleveland family—father, mother, and three children—stood behind the huge picture window, all of them staring at her. She stepped quickly back into the house, picked up Balon's old Bible and returned to the porch. She held up the Bible, the dull gold cross on the leather shining in the glow of streetlights.

The Cleveland family pulled the drapes.

Jane Ann stood for a moment on the steps, the hot winds blowing around her. "I won't run," she whispered, clutching the Word of God to her breast. "I won't run, and you can't make me run."

The wind sighed around her. And had she looked closely at the invisible wind, she could have seen a light mist forming where the wind touched the corner of the house.

"Miles, this is foolish," Wade pleaded with the man. "It's … folklore; myths. Hell, man, you haven't been in a synagogue in fifty years! You sure haven't been kosher in all the years I've known you."

"I'm a Jew," Miles said stubbornly. "My God will not forsake me."

"Bubbemysah!" Doris said.

Wade looked up. "What?"

"Old wives' tale," Miles translated. "It is not. Just ask the people of Prague."

"Ask the people of Prague," Doris said sarcastically. "What ask? That happened—supposedly—in the sixteenth century. I'm sure there are thousands still around who witnessed it."

"It happened," Miles insisted, looking at her. "I know, my grandfather was a cabalist. He told me it did."

"Your grandfather was a meshuggener," she replied. "All this foolish stuff. I'll go make coffee."

Miles shook his head and grinned. "She just called my grandfather a crazy old man. Wade, my God won't let me down. I know it."

"Seems like He did a pretty good job of it at Dachau, Buchenwald, and Auschwitz. To mention but a few.".

"Don't blaspheme, Wade. Now is not the time. Ah … who am I trying to kid? Me! that's who. I'm talking in one breath about something I was taught not to believe in, and in the next breath talking about being a Jew. Then I talk about a golem. Used to listen to my grandfather talk about golems. Ah," he sighed heavily, "takes a rabbi to build one anyway. I think. I'm an old man, Wade. Sixty-eight next month. You wanna know what I think, Wade—I'll tell you: I think it's too late. That's what I think. For all of us. We should have left this place that summer … after we … did it." He thumped the arm of his chair. "Pulled out. But no, we were full of piss and courage … so we stayed. Like fools. Well, whatever it was, it's back. And you know it. I'm glad our kids have all gone away." He waved a hand, thin and heavily veined. "But I'm just too old to run. Wade, you go back and get Anita. The two of you, get Jane Ann … and run."

"Anita won't run, Miles. I can't convince her it's happening all over again. And Jane Ann is beginning to suspect more each day. She told me she wasn't running."

"Sam is not here to protect us now, Wade. And I don't mean no slight against you in saying that."

"I know you don't. Miles … I believe Sam is here. He told him about the letter.

"My old rabbi should hear this story. He'd crap on himself. May I be forgiven for saying that. Yeah, Sam was a wild one. If there was a way back, he'd find it. I hope he's here. Oh, Wade! What are we saying? Foolishness. Sam is dead. So let's have some coffee and cakes and talk about all the good times."

An hour later, Wade stepped out of the Lansky house. The hot winds still blew. He walked to his car, pausing with his hand on the door. He looked up. "Sam, Jane Ann is not going to run. But if we stay here, they'll kill us, and do much worse to Jane Ann before she dies."

But the wind still blew hot, and Wade received no reply to his statement.

And the clay that Miles had painfully, slowly dug from the banks of a river—several hundred pounds of it—and had carefully shaped into the form of a man, with arms and legs and a featureless face, lay in the basement, in a huge packing crate.

It appeared lifeless.

It was in the summer of 1958 the horror finally surfaced, erupting like a too-long festering boil, spewing its corruption over all those near it. Specifically, the town of Whitfield and part of Fork County.

Those who survived the terror remember it as the summer of The Digging. And not many of the town's 2,500 residents did survive. Only a few. A few believers. More than a few unbelievers.

Whitfield was destroyed. At the end of that week of devil-induced terror, the town was a broken, burned-out, still-smoking ruin.

An archaeological team (they said) had come to Whitfield, ostensibly to investigate a huge stone circle, its interior barren of life. But what they were really doing was searching for a stone tablet. Satan's tablet, upon which were carved these words: HE WALKS AMONG YOU. THE MARK OF THE BEAST IS PLAIN. BELIEVE IN HIM. ONCE TOUCHED, FOREVER HIS. THE KISS OF LIFE AND DEATH.

And the tablet had been found.

After that, the town's fall into the blackest depths of sin and depravity had been swift, with only a few resisting: the minister, Sam Balon, whose own wife, Michelle, was part of the Devil's team, as old and as evil as time. Father Dubois, a Catholic priest, had driven a stake into her heart, then stood by the bed with Sam, watching her metamorphosis through centuries of evil, and finally, her death.

The old priest was killed a short time later. Then the horror unfolded in Fork County.

The Undead walking. The Beasts of the devil prowling.

Sam Balon had pulled together a handful of people, true believers in the Lord God. They fought the horror with everything they could find and with every ounce of strength and faith they possessed. Sam had acted as the right hand of God.

It was a week of mind-tearing horror and days and nights of fear; of seeking out and killing those who worshiped the Devil. Finally, to save the few friends who remained, and to save his new wife, Jane Ann, Sam agreed to fight off the advances of Mephistopheles' witch, Nydia, a beautiful woman whose soul had been given to the Prince of Filth centuries before, in return for everlasting youth and unbelievable beauty.

Sam Balon had sent the Devil's agent, Black Wilder, tumbling back to Hell with a stake through his dark heart. All part of the bargain. Then the witch, Nydia, took Balon into the spinning darkness of trackless time. And the man of God and the Witch of Hell fought for Sam's seed of life. In the end, Nydia beat him and Balon was killed, his naked body found by the survivors. Cut into the earth beside the body, this message: HE MET ME—AND I DO RESPECT COURAGE.

It was signed by Satan.

The young doctor, Tony King, took Jane Ann as his wife, and the son of Sam Balon would not learn of his true father's fate for years—until it was almost too late.

TWO

"We'll leave the main highway at St. Gervais," Black said. "Then drive northeast until we come to where mother owns some property. We'll pick up a four-wheel drive there; sometimes you can't even make it to the house in a four-wheel. It can get rough."

Sam nodded, not really paying much attention to the words of his friend and soon-to-be-host. Since the moment he and Black had picked up Black's sister, Nydia, Sam had sat in a near state of shock, overwhelmed by her beauty. He did not believe he had ever seen a more beautiful woman, and when she told him that no, she didn't have a steady boyfriend, and that really she hardly dated at all, Sam began counting his lucky stars.

Nydia was five feet seven, she told him. She did not volunteer her weight, and Sam tactfully didn't ask. But whatever her weight, it was distributed in a most delightful manner. Her hair was as black as the darkest night, her eyes a deep blue. Her skin was flawless, with just a hint of the long-ago Mediterranean ancestry. Her designer jeans were filled out perfectly (Sam could only guess at her shapely legs, and his guesses would later prove one hundred percent accurate), and her breasts were full.

Nydia was as taken with Sam as he with her, looking him over very carefully, and liking everything she saw. Sam was well over six feet and muscular, with big shoulders and arms, a narrow waist. He had his late father's unruly mop of thick, dark-brown hair, and since leaving the army, had allowed it to grow a bit longer than the service likes. Sam's handsomeness was not of the pretty-boy type, Nydia concluded. He was … rugged-looking, with a solid, square jaw. And she had never before in her life been so drawn to a member of the opposite sex. She did not—at least up until now—believe in love at first sight. Now she was not so sure.

But she was certain of one thing: she was going to get to know Sam B. King very well. Just about as well as any woman can know a man.

And that shocked her, for she was a virgin in an age of overt promiscuity.

"How do you get out if you can't use a four-wheel drive?" Sam asked.

"Oh … snowmobiles, helicopters. We have them all at Falcon House," Black replied with the ease of a person born into great wealth.

"Must be nice," Sam mused. "How did your father get his name?" he asked Nydia. "I've never heard of a person named Falcon."

"His name is really Falkner," she replied, her voice touching Sam in some very intimate places, producing some uplifting results. Uncomfortable if one is wearing jeans. "And he isn't really our father. Our real father is, well . . . either dead or gone someplace; we don't know, since mother refuses to discuss him. The only time she ever mentioned him she flew into a rage."

"We don't have to hang dirty linen in public, dear," Black said. "Besides, you are digressing from the question."

"Forgive me, brother dear," Nydia said, her eyes narrowing in sudden anger.

Quick temper, Sam noted, filling that away in the back of his mind.

"Falkner means," she continued, "or so I'm told, Falcon hunter. His father began calling him Falcon when he was just a baby. It's been Falcon ever since. Truth or fiction, it's an interesting story."

"Your mother's name?"

Black smiled, the smile not going unnoticed by Sam, who chose to ignore it, but he filed that away, too. The smile had seemed … odd.

"Roma," Nydia said. "Means the wanderer. My mother has … seen most of the world during her life. But despite her age—which by the way, she will not reveal—she is still the most beautiful woman I have ever seen."

"Even more beautiful than you?" Sam said, the words popping from his mouth.

Black laughed and so did his sister. "Thank you," she said. "But in answer to your question: yes, she is. You'll see. Roma is beautiful."

"Falcon and Roma," Sam mused. "Fascinating names."

"We are an unusual family," she replied. "I believe after you've spent some time with us you'll agree with that."

More than you realize, sister, Black thought. And soon it will be time for you to know just who you are. And what you were born to do—and become.

The trio had flown into Montreal, picked up one of the family's fleet of cars, and now, at St. Gervais, they all helped transfer the gear, then clamored noisily into the four-wheel for the eighty-mile trip into what Black called Canada's near outback.

A thought popped into Sam's brain, the thought becoming vocal before he knew why he said it, "You guys go to church?"

"No," Black said, trying to keep his reply from being too short. "We were taught to believe in God … and especially," he fought a smile, "the Devil. But we practice no form of … popularly organized religion."

"I've gone to a church several times since I've been at Carrington," Nydia said. "I found it most interesting. I plan to keep on attending."

Black almost lost the big four-wheel. He wanted to scream at his sister, but instead bit his lip so hard he brought a drop of blood. Stupid bitch! he silently cursed her.

"Do you go to church, Sam?" she asked.

"Not as often as I should. I kind of got away from it in the service. I've got to start back, though. Nydia? How come you didn't go on to college when you got out of high school? I mean, I don't mean to be nosy; you can tell me to go to hell if you want."

Precisely where you are going, Sam, Black thought. In time.

Again, that lovely laughter from the backseat. "Don't be silly, Sam. No, mother asked if I wanted to go straight to school, or see the world with her and wait for Black to complete his stint in the service. Mother wanted him to go into the military. A real tough branch of the service.

Said in the years to come, the training would do him a lot of good. She said she once knew a man whom she admired greatly; she wanted Black to be like him in some ways. I think she said this man was a guerrilla fighter of some type; Special Forces, maybe."

"Sounds like my dad," Sam said, gazing out the window.

If the communiques could have been heard by human ears, they would have sounded like the rolling of enormous thunder splitting the heavens.

"How about it, Mighty One?" the dark voice ripped through the heavens. "A wager, perhaps?"

The replying voice was calm and assured. "Don't tempt me, Beelzebub. I might decide to end it all. I did once before, remember?"

"Bah! You won't. Not for this inconsequential bit of rabble. Your team against mine, like in the old days. If you win, I'll give you a million whimpering souls from the pits—so to speak."

"I could take them if I so desired. It was their choice. It always is. You should know. Remember: Thou shalt have no other God …"

"Oh, shut up! Don't bore me with that drivel! I had quite enough of that claptrap infinities ago."

"Why do I waste my time talking with you?"

"Because I'm interesting, and despite what you lead others to believe, you haven't yet given up on me, that's why."

"All right, proud one: I'll wager."

"I don't believe it!"

"If my team wins, you convert to my side."

"In a nun's cunt! Judas Priest, when you make up your mind to play, you really want to be a high roller, don't you?"

"Take it or leave it."

"I'll … leave it."

"I thought you would. No, Prince of Rats, I don't like this game of yours. I thought we settled all this a blink or two ago?"

The reply was slyly made. "Balon made a bargain."

"And it was kept, was it not?"

No reply.

"No, Filthy One, I won't interfere … directly. But I might, and I stress might, make the teams a bit more even."

"You wouldn't dare! That's against the rules."

"Oh?"

The voice that was laced with venom and evil howled and flung curses and spat ribbons of filth into the Heavens, attempting to penetrate the firmament. But the Mighty Voice chose not to reply.

Conversations with inferiors tended to bore Him … rather quickly.

"Your dad?" Nydia asked. Her ears had been listening, but her eyes had been fixed on a strange occurrence in the eastern sky. She had never seen anything quite like it: streaks of pure white darting down to almost touch upward thrusts of the ugliest yellow she had ever seen.

God rules the Heavens, she thought. But the Devil rules the earth.

And that sudden thought puzzled her, for she had only been to church a few times in her entire life. She did not remember ever hearing it before.

And what did that narrow plume of white and yellow have to do with religion?

She pushed the confusion from her brain. "I thought your dad was a doctor, Sam?"

"Not my real dad. He was a minister. But from what mother has told me, he was a real rounder. Back during the Korean War, he was a guerrilla fighter; one of the first of the Special Forces. He was a boxer, worked in a carnival, too, I think. Did all sorts of things. He was a real hell-raiser, though, before he became a minister."

"What happened to him?" she asked.

"He was killed before I was born. I never really knew exactly what happened. Mother has always kind of evaded that question whenever I brought it up. Said I would know someday. But I really want to know. It kind of bugs me."

"Were you in Special Forces, Sam?"

"No. I was a Ranger, out in Washington State. Real good outfit. You never hear much about the Rangers."

"Black was a Commando," she said, but there was not one note of pride in her voice, and Sam wondered about that.

"Yes," Sam replied. "That's a good outfit, too."

"Did you see combat, Sam?" she asked.

"Not … that I can talk about, Nydia."

"In other words," she grinned, "drop the subject?"

"That's about it," Sam agreed.

The three of them laughed about that.

"Men!" she said with false disgust. "But I know more about you than you think, Sam," she said mysteriously.

Sam did not ask what she knew about him, or how she had learned it. When he did remember to ask, he didn't, figuring Black had told her.

The conversation lightened, and they sang songs and told jokes and the miles seemed to fly past; three young people having fun. And then suddenly, out of the deep timber, just at that time when night reared up to touch and alter day, the massive house came into view.

Falcon House.

One could almost touch the evil that hung over the small town of Whitfield, and one could certainly see it in the eyes of the townspeople as they moved slowly up and down the streets. Just as it had happened in the 1950s, the evil had approached the people slowly, as a languoring sickness, sluggish in its growth, but deadly when it reached the brain or the heart.

Now many in that doomed town huddled in their homes, not understanding what was happening around them. The phones would not work; their neighbors were turning against them; their cars and trucks disabled … deliberately, and they were afraid.

Whitfield never regained its population total of 1958; fewer than 800 men, women and children now resided in the small town; perhaps 250 people in this part of Fork County, on the ranches and the farms.

But the Master of Darkness had taken note of his mistakes in the past, and did not intend to repeat them this time: no sudden departure from the churches—let that be a very gradual thing; no open rebellion; no mysterious disappearances or suspicious deaths; no closing of roads and sealing off this part of the county. There was no need for that now. Of the 1,050 residents in this part of Fork County, 850 had been inducted into the Coven of the Hooved One. More than enough.

The Lord of Flies felt that a handful of aging Christians could do little to halt his movement in Whitfield, and that silly old Jew with his golem that would never be anything more than several hundred pounds of clay, immobile in a box, gave the Prince of Filth several moments of high humor.

His followers would have several hundred people to test their mettle upon. An ample number to produce days of screaming and nights of sexual depravity. Depravity being one of those Christian words, of course.

The King of Evil had moved slowly this time … no need for rushing; no need for panic; no need for elaborate schemes. The old Jew and Jewess would be no problem, and the aging newspaper man and his silly wife would meet the same fate. The doctor had been easy: the Prince of Darkness had had a high time playing with the good doctor over the years, tempting him, luring him, teasing him, and then, finally breaking him.

But Baton's widow, mother of that boy-child who was blessed by that accursed meddler in the Heavens … she was another matter. A very strong Christian type. Prissy little thing. Goody-goody. She had resisted all of his subtle and not-so-subtle advances; just couldn't shake her faith in Him. She was still a very attractive woman— beautiful, in fact. It would be very interesting finding her breaking point: mentally, sexually, physically.

Yes, very interesting. Quite.

But the Master of All Things did not share the Dark One's sense of humor. And while there were limits beyond which He could not go—directly—in dealing with the problems facing humankind—on earth—He could take a hand indirectly. Other than the ultimate warning He had given, so many years before.

And in His kingdom, spanning worlds and creatures and living things as yet unknown by anyone outside of the firmament, all under His never closing eyes, He brooded and sighed, knowing Sam Balon had slipped out—again. And also knowing He was hard-pressed to contain His personal bodyguard from following.

And a smile as bright as a thousand sunrises touched the face of the Universal Life Force of good.

"Good Lord, what a house!" Sam breathed. "In the middle of natures' beauty … this."

"Quite a pad, huh, Sam?" Black smiled.

"But … how?" Sam asked. "I mean … why here?"

"How was easy when one is as rich as Roma and Falcon," Nydia said from the backseat. Sam thought he detected just a hint of irritability in her voice; a touch of maybe-this-is-just-a-bit-too-much, too big, too pretentious. "Why? It was originally built, or someone began it as an inn, a hotel. They ran out of money. That's when Mother and Falcon stepped in. They had money from both sides of the family, and they retired young enough to really enjoy it. And they enjoy solitude."

"They can sure have that up here," Sam observed.

"The nearest neighbor is thirty-five miles away," Black informed him. "Two of the servants are trained paramedics in case of any medical emergencies that might arise, and the house has a huge generator and several smaller back-up units. As you can see, Sam, solar energy is used to help cool and heat the home. We'll give you the grand tour, don't worry."

The massive house was two full floors, running east and west, with another single floor rising up from the center of the home, starkly commanding the second and first floor wings beneath it.

"Your parents must employ a full-time grounds-keeper," Sam said.

"Several," Black told him. "Come on, Sam—meet the folks."

Falcon was tall and well built, a very handsome and athletic-appearing man. Age indeterminable. His hair was very black, with gray at the temples. It did not appear to have been touched with dye. His handshake was firm and his smile friendly, although his eyes were so dark Sam could not tell if the friendliness touched them or not.

But it was Roma who literally took Sam's breath away. He was very conscious of Nydia's eyes on him when the older woman appeared in the foyer of the great house.

She was the most magnificent woman Sam had ever seen.

He has his father's eyes, Roma thought. And his father's build and hair. I wonder if he has his father's cock?

"Mrs. Williams," Sam said, taking her offered hand.

"Roma," she corrected with a smile, her hand soft and warm in his. "I am so very happy to have the opportunity to meet you at last. Black has written much about you. But we'll have time to chat later. Lots of time. I know you all must be weary from your journey. Sam … Black will show you to your quarters. Rest for a time. We have drinks at seven, dinner is at eight-thirty. Informal, of course."

The woman before Sam was as tall as her daughter, with the same midnight-black hair and full, sensuous lips, her lipstick a slash of dark red. Her skin was that of her daughter's, touched with the same tint. Her figure was flawless; for her age, breathtaking, with full, heavy breasts and under her gown, long, shapely legs. Had Sam known exactly how old the woman who was once known as Nydia the Witch really was, he would have passed out on the floor.

Sam was very conscious of the woman's frankly sexual gaze. Then, as abruptly as the gaze was heated, it cooled, and a smile crossed her lips.

"I … have the strangest sensation, Mrs. Williams," Sam said.

"Oh?" The smile did not leave her mouth.

"I feel as if I know you; as if we'd met before."

"Oh, I rather doubt it, Sam. You're such a handsome young … devil," she said laughing, "I would surely remember the event. We'll chat over drinks in a few hours. We have days to get acquainted." She turned and walked from the foyer, knowing full well Sam's eyes were on her body. Roma knew many things. Her mind was a storehouse of information—all evil.

Brazen witch! Nydia thought, fuming as she watched her mother parade from the room, hips slightly swaying. The contempt she felt for her mother almost boiled to the surface.

Careful, Mother, Black projected. Your cunt captured Sam Balon, but it failed to conquer him. And young Sam is truly his father's son. It is not worth losing a daughter to gain another conquest.

I know both your thoughts, Roma thrust to her son, the waves stopping Sam cold in his tracks, suspending him momentarily. And I know my daughter has begun to hate me. And I know why. He is interfering. He is breaking the rules of the game. I will have to speak with the Master.

The projections ceased. Sam shook his head. "Boy … that trip must have been more tiring than I thought. I was out of it for a few seconds. I felt … strange."

"It's the excitement," Black said. "New people, new places—kind of a strain, that's all. Come on, I'll show you where to bunk."

Where to bunk! Sam thought, after Black had escorted him to his rooms. It was a suite, consisting of a large bedroom, a sitting room, a huge bathroom, and a large walk-in closet. Sam looked for a radio. None. TV? None. Come to think of it, he mused, he had seen no TV antenna on Falcon House. Only the shortwave antenna for communication. It was almost as if they wished to be cut off from the outside as much as possible.

Turning to unpack his suitcase, Sam could not shake the feeling t>f foreboding that hung about him, and could not understand why he should feel that way.

His peripheral vision saw the doorknob slowly turning, the door easing open. Sam tensed.

THREE

"Sam?" Nydia called.

The young man grinned, expelling air from his lungs. "Here, Nydia."

She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. "You're really very special company, Sam." She smiled, aware of their being alone together. "This is the first time Mother has ever let a guest stay in this wing. Especially," her dark eyes sparkled with mischief, "in the room next to mine." She pointed to a closed door on the far side of the room.

Sam returned the grin. "Well … I'll have to keep my door locked then. I know how difficult it is to be a sex symbol—been one all my life."

Nydia rolled her eyes in mock awe. "Oh, my! I didn't know I was in such celebrated company. Perhaps you'd better keep your door locked. I might try to break it down, lusting after your body."

"In that case," Sam feigned great haste in digging into his jeans pocket, "let me give you the key."

Laughing, they stepped closer to each other. They stood for a moment, content to look into the other's eyes. Finally, Sam said, "I certainly am glad Black invited me up here."

"I certainly am glad you came." Something clouded her dark eyes. "Sam? Be careful in this house."

"What do you mean?"

"I … don't know how to explain it. But," she bit at her lower lip, "sometimes guests are … changed, sort of. In a very strange kind of way. Spooky. I've seen it happen many times over the years. Watch out for the unexpected."

That feeling of foreboding suddenly became much more intense.

Both the young people whirled as the door opened behind them. Roma stood looking at them. "I could not help overhearing," she said. "You will find, Sam, that my daughter has a very active imagination. She desires to become a fiction writer, and I think she sometimes has difficulty separating fact from fiction." She held out a hand to her daughter. "Come, dear. Let's not be rude and prevent our guest from taking his rest."

Sam caught a flicker of something very close to contempt in Nydia's eyes. "Of course, Mother." She glanced at Sam. "See you in an hour or so. Perhaps you'd enjoy a swim before cocktails? We have an indoor pool and a selection of trunks in case Black forgot to tell you to bring a suit."

"He did. And I'd love a swim."

"I'll tap on your door in about an hour. That door." She pointed to the connecting door between their rooms, then glared openly and defiantly at her mother.

The woman left, with Roma closing the door, flashing a brief smile at Sam. A smile that left Sam guessing at its true content. But Sam, like his father, although not to the degree of the elder Balon, was worldly, and he thought he knew what was behind that smile.

Should be an interesting week, he thought. He stretched out on the bed and was asleep in three minutes, sleeping the deep sleep of a young person at the very pinnacle of health and physical conditioning.

He dreamed of a strange-looking medallion but could not bring the relief of the medal into clear focus. In his dream, Sam questioned where he had seen the medallion. Then it came to him: around the necks of Black and his mother. Some sort of family crest, he imagined. And he pushed the dream from him and slept.

And as he slept, the cross around his neck, the cross that had belonged to his father, began to glow in the darkness of the room. It seemed to pulse with life.

Roma and Nydia in bikinis was just about more than Sam could take. Several times the young man had to hit the water of the pool to cool his emotions, throttling an uncomfortable stiffness.

Roma (she had to be in her mid to late forties, at least, Sam thought) had the body of a twenty-year-old, without any sign of aging, no sagging, no marks of age. She was truly astonishing. Both mother and daughter were absolute, sheer, flawless, physical perfection, and Sam's eyes greedily drank in their beauty whenever he felt it was safe to do so without being obvious. Although several times he got the impression they were both parading for his benefit. Neither Black nor Falcon were poolside, and Sam asked Roma about that while Nydia lapped the pool.

"Oh, they're discussing some … financial matters, I'm sure," she said, smiling. "Unearthly as far as I'm concerned. Neither of them care for swimming; they prefer riding or fencing. Both are quite good with the rapier. Do you fence, Sam?"

"No, ma'am."

She laughed. "Ma'am? Really, Sam. That makes me feel positively ancient. Roma, please." She cut her eyes and visually traveled over the young man's body, lingering at his crotch. Yes, she thought, just like his father: amply endowed.

Sam felt he was being mentally raped.

He was.

Sam cleared his throat. "May I ask a personal question, Roma?"

"You may ask anything you wish, Sam."

Okay, lady, he thought. How about you and me finding the nearest bed and getting it on?

Then he was aware of a burning sensation in the center of his chest, right where his cross usually lay.

Roma smiled. "I'm also mildly psychic, young man."

"Oh, boy," Sam muttered.

"Really, I'm flattered, Sam. It's quite nice that a handsome young man—certainly young enough to be my son—would desire me."

"You're not angry with me for thinking that?" Again, that strange burning sensation in the center of his chest.

"Don't be silly. I can't imagine a woman who would be angry."

"How do you do that? I mean, read people's minds?"

"Was that the personal question you were going to ask?"

"No, ma'am. I mean, Roma."

"You were going to ask how I managed to stay so young-looking."

"Damn," he muttered. "I'm really going to have to control my thoughts."

"I was born in Rumania, Sam. A … well, a few years ago," she laughed. "I have a mixture of races in me, and my mother was astonishingly beautiful." (She was, five hundred years ago, when Roma, christened Nydia, was born). "My mother was over a hundred years old when she died. And still quite attractive." (And begging for her life while Nydia the Witch bludgeoned her to death, laughing as she did so). "I really take no special care of my body, other than to exercise daily and watch my diet."

With that, she rose from the poolside lounger and executed a clean, graceful dive into the water just as her daughter was walking toward them, rubbing her hair with a thick towel. Sam watched her stride toward him: like her mother, ripe perfection. And, like her mother, dressed in a bikini that scarcely covered all the essentials.

"My mother is quite a woman, isn't she?" Nydia asked, sitting down and catching her breath from her laps in the huge pool. Steam rose in light upward exhalations from the heated water.

"At least that, Nydia. I would think Falcon would be extremely jealous of her."

"Did she come on to you, Sam? Sure, she did," she said, not giving him time to answer the question. "Oh, they both do what they want to do. Have their little affairs. I've known about them both for years."

"Why do I get the feeling you and your mother don't get along?"

"Because it's true. We're civil to each other—most of the time—but we stopped being friends a long time ago."

"Care to talk about it?"

"Later. Here comes the never-aging sexpot."

Sam shook his head at the acid in Nydia's remark.

"Nydia's been going to a church," Black said to Falcon. The men sat in the study, the heavy doors closed.

"I know it, so does Roma. There is nothing we can do about it. For several reasons. But we know He has been meddling."

"But why? I thought the rules …"

Falcon cut him off with a wave of his hand; a curt slash of impatience. "The Masters make the rules, each knowing they can break them at will. If, really, any rules do exist, which I more and more doubt. But nevertheless, we are required to follow what our individual Master dictates. And don't ask questions. What goes on in the minds of the two Supreme Beings is beyond the grasp of even us. When are the others arriving?"

"Tomorrow. Noon. I arranged for a helicopter to bring them in."

"Balon's bastard know of their coming?"

"No. Neither does Nydia."

Falcon brooded for a time, his dark features unreadable. "You feel … how many to be ready converts?"

"Ten. Five young men, five young women. The others are for our mutual enjoyment. Two young men, four young women."

"Leave the men for Roma. We'll share the women. They are young?"

"And tender."

"Lovely?"

"Beautiful."

"Virgins?"

"I think … possibly three. Susan is curious of our Master. She will be an easy convert, and an easier fuck. But one of them I know is pure. She is the one I picked for you.

Both men laughed, the chuckling evil. "Problems should they vanish?"

"By that time it will be over and done with, bon?"

"Oui. Balon's bastard is to be Roma's … exclusively. You understand that?"

"Yes, Falcon. Unless she tells me differently."

"You may have to kill your sister, Black. Or, on a more pleasant note, plant your seed within her. Does either prospect disturb you?"

The young warlock shrugged his reply.

"Good. You are your mother's child. Well, now … a full nine days." He smiled, the smile as corrupt as his heart was dark. "I am looking forward to the time."

The hot wind picked up, rousing Jane Ann from a fitful sleep. Tony had not returned. She opened her eyes and gasped in fright when she saw the mist at the foot of the bed.

The mist began to change, to take some shape, and her fright turned into a mixture of relief and joy. Jane Ann smiled.

"I will do what I can to help," the voice said, beating a silent message inside her head. "But I don't know how much He will allow me to do. I am rather a maverick within the Kingdom."

"Oh, Sam!"

"Let me finish. You have lost half of all you once loved, Balon flung his message. "And I can tell you no more than that. Help Miles and Wade while you can. In the end, it will be up to you and the clay man. But more weight will be put on your shoulders, your faith."

She did not understand. "Tony? He is the half I have lost?"

"I can tell you no more at this time."

Jane Ann knew then that her suspicions had been correct. Tony had gone to the other side. "Our son?"

"He will be tempted, and he will fall from grace more than once during the next nine days. But I can do little to help. I will attempt to see him, perhaps attempt to write to him. I … think he will find an unexpected ally coming forward. But my place is with you, and at the end, you will have a choice to make."

And Jane Ann knew what that choice would be.

"Don't be too hasty in your decision." Balon hurled the warning. "You have many, many good years ahead of you. You don't have to do this."

"I must."

"Once you have decided, the only alternative is to accept the Dark One's offer."

"I will never do that. I love you, Sam. I want to be with you.

"I must go now," Balon projected. "Be careful."

The mist began to disperse, becoming shapeless, formless. Then one slim tentacle of mist broke from the vapor and moved down the side of the bed to touch Jane Ann on the cheek. Then the mist was gone. She put her hand to her cheek: the spot was damp. Soon her tears had kissed the touch of love that endured … of life after death.

Dinner had been quite an event, the setting something Sam had heretofore witnessed only in the movies. The meal had been served in courses, and the coffee the best he had ever tasted.

"Mother owns land in Columbia," Black explained. "We have the beans flown in and grind them ourselves."

Falcon was very polite throughout the meal, but not given to much conversation. He and Black excused themselves after dinner and went into the study, closing the door. Nydia said she was going to bed and would see Sam in the morning.

The look Nydia fired at Sam was full of warning. And Sam did not really understand it … at least he tried to convince himself of that.

Roma rose from her chair and held out her hand. "Come, Sam, walk with me. The night air will do us good."

He held her wrap and was conscious of the heady perfume wafting into his nostrils. He was grateful when they stepped out into the cold night air of the terrace.

"Tell me about yourself, Sam," she said, standing very close to him.

"Not that much to tell. I'm twenty-one. Went right into the army out of high school. Did my time, and glad I did. Here I am."

"You and Black have a lot in common. Black and Nydia were born in March 1959."

"So was I. Where were they born, Roma?"

"Rumania."

"I thought that country was under communist control."

"I travel wherever and whenever I choose, Sam. My investments are worldwide. Tell me about your father."

"I never knew him. He died before I was born. My mother married a doctor before I was born. He delivered me. Doctor Tony King."

"But you always knew this King person was not your father?"

"Oh, yes. They made that clear when I was old enough to understand. My dad was a minister. Big man."

In more ways than one, she thought. "But you never had the calling?"

"Me?" Sam laughed. "Oh, no. But I have worn dad's cross around my neck—all my life." He touched the center of his chest, feeling the outline of the cross.

Roma fought to keep herself from recoiling away from the young man. She remembered that cross very well: it had burned her several times while she and Sam Balon were grappling for control, prior to mating as they fought in circles through timeless, trackless space, neutral ground, ruled by no Master.

Roma shivered.

"Cold?" Sam touched her arm instinctively, protectively. At the touch, his chest began that strange burning, now much more intense.

"No," she said shortly. The mention of that damned cross driving all thoughts of sex from her. She moved away from his touch; the burning in the center of his chest ceased. "I must go," she moved toward the house. "I'll see you in the morning, Sam. Sleep well."

She was gone, the darkness of her gown fading into the night.

Footsteps echoed hollowly on the stone walkway leading from the yard. Sam turned. A tall, almost emaciated-looking man slowly made his way up to the terrace.

"Best you go in the house now, sir." The man spoke slowly, as if the act of speaking was painful.

"Why?"

"Because it is going to rain, and you are not dressed for the elements."

Sam looked up into the sky. Thousands of stars twinkled down at him. "But there isn't a cloud in the sky!"

"It will rain," the man insisted. "Soon."

"What's your name?" Sam asked.

"Perkins. Jimmy Perkins."

"Have you worked for the Williams long?"

"Years. Go in the house now." The man turned, and the night seemed to dissolve him.

Sam listened for the sound of fading footsteps. But none could be heard. The man appeared to have vanished.

Perkins? Sam thought. Now … where have I heard that name before?

Lying in his bed, conscious of Nydia in the next room, near but so far, just before sleep spread its gentle blanket over him, Sam was still musing over the tall man with the somehow familiar name.

And on the dresser, the cross glowed dully.

"Meddling!" Satan fired a dirty salvo into the Heavens. "Always meddling. Why can't you abide by the rules?"

"You are complaining about rules being broken, Asmodeus? How droll."

"We made an agreement—aeons ago. You rule the Heavens; I rule the earth."

"I don't recall any hard and fast set of rules." The Master of All chuckled, and the Heavens rumbled with thunder. "Hooved one, you amuse me. Your mind, what there is of it, is open for inspection. My maverick resident returned to earth by his own volition—not with my permission."

"You lifted the veil."

"Not necessarily. Balon is a curious one, and a brave one. He takes chances; he pries; he investigates. Besides, the boundaries that divide life from death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends and the other begins?"

Satan howled his laughter, the foulness stinking the air. "That is not very original of you, Thunder-Breath. Have you taken to spending your time reading Poe?"

"Idiot! Who do you suppose put the thought in his mind?"

"I was under the impression it was I."

'That says a great deal for your intelligence."

"I don't have to stand here and be insulted."

"Anywhere you go is an insult to someone."

"Bah!"

And the Heavens became silent as a gentle rain began falling over Falcon House and the grounds surrounding it.

"Miles!" The mist formed at the foot of the Jew's bed. "Open your eyes. Look at me."

Miles fearfully opened his eyes, looking at the mist. He began silently reciting prayers, recalling them as if he had just stepped out of the synagogue.

Miles tried to speak but found he was voiceless.

"Don't be alarmed." The mist thrust its silent projection as it began to take shape. "I can hear your thoughts."

"Go away!" Miles said. "Sam? My God—my God! Oh! I think I'm having a heart attack."

"And I think you're as full of it now as when I knew you years ago."

"Don't think ugly!" Miles sat up in bed. "You're too close to Him to take chances."

"Miles?" Doris stirred by his side. "What's wrong?"

I should tell you and you'd have an accident in your gown. "Nothing," his voice popped from his throat. "A little gas, is all."

"Umm," she said, and then fell into a deep sleep.

"She won't wake up again until I leave," Sam projected. "You may speak normally."

"I wish you had taught me how to do that years ago."

"I didn't know how years ago."

"Sam—I'm dreaming all this, right?"

"It is not a dream."

"I was afraid you'd say that. Sam, I'm an old man, with more than my share of aches and pains: bad circulation … and that other thing, too. Arteriosclerosis. And I got …"

"Not anymore, Miles."

"What do you mean, Sam?"

"Do your legs hurt you, Miles?"

Miles thought about that for a moment, his hands feeling his thin legs. His legs were not cold, nor did they ache. He looked at the mist and said: "What did you do, Sam?"

"Corrected a few physical problems. You and Wade will have to be strong, mentally and physically, to make it through this upcoming ordeal."

"Why am I experiencing this feeling that I am about to get the shitty—excuse me, Sam—end of this handel?"

"I don't speak Hebrew, Miles."

"Bargain. You really don't? That seems odd."

"All languages are as one there, Miles. Miles? Am I your friend?"

"Oy! Here it comes; I knew it."

"Wouldn't you rather go out in a blaze of glory, Miles?"

"If it's all the same with you, Sam, I would rather not go out at all! Sam, old friend, do you realize what you're doing to me? You turned my head all cockeyed more than twenty years ago. I'm a Jew—I don't believe in all this crazy stuff. Now here you come again—no offense meant. Sam, please, it's good to see you; what there is of you. But … oh, Sam! What do you want from this old man? Let me rephrase that: What's gonna happen to me?"

"You're going to meet The Man in nine days."

"Some friend you are! You fix my legs all up where they don't hurt—first time in five years—then you tell me I'm gonna die in nine days!" He lay back, his head on the pillow. He closed his eyes. "If I don't see you, don't talk to you, you'll go away."

He was still for a few moments, until curiosity got the best of him. He opened his eyes. The mist that was Sam Balon was still there, looking at him.

Miles sighed, then said: "Well, sometimes it works. Okay, Sam … I never could win an argument with you. What do you want me to do?"

"Finish the Clay Man."

"I knew that was coming, too."

"I will speak with Wade and Anita. Perhaps Wade only. They will come to stay with you and Doris. The Clay Man will have power for nine days only; for the duration of the siege. When life leaves him, the four of you will go home."

"How is it, Sam? I mean … where you are. Were. Where you stay."

"Different. But I don't stay there often. When I'm there, I'm usually in trouble with Him."

"That, I can believe. Sam? What does this make me? This flies in the face of all that I was taught as a child. Everything I was taught to believe."

"I cannot say what it makes you. That will be your choice at the end."

"Wonderful," Miles said dryly. "I love a mystery."

The mist began to fade.

"Sam?" Miles cried. "What about Jane Ann?"

The mist projected its reply, and Miles was saddened.

Breakfast at the mansion was served buffet style, with Sam and Nydia eating together.

"Did you sleep well?" she asked.

"Passed out," Sam said, buttering a piece of toast. "I don't recall ever sleeping so soundly."

"It's the silence of the woods. But sometimes it can be … well, frightening."

"How?"

Her eyes were serious as they fixed their beauty on Sam's face. "Do you believe in the Devil, Sam?"

"Of course."

"Do you believe in possession?"

Sam chewed thoughtfully for a few seconds. "Yes, I do, Nydia. Even though most Protestants don't. But my father did. My real father. Mother told me he did. My stepfather was raised in the Catholic Church, but he broke from it when I was about ten … just a kid. Tony stopped worshiping God. Just quit. I don't know what happened. But mother taught me the Bible, and to believe in demonic possession. One thing she stressed was that the Devil walks the earth. Yeah … it was about that time I started hearing whispers about Tony running around on Mother. But," he shrugged, "his loss. Mother is beautiful. I don't understand men who run around on their wives. Sorry, I'm digressing. Why do you ask about possession?"

"Are you a Christian, Sam?"

"Well … technically, yes, I suppose I am. I'm not very pure at heart at times, though."

"Christians aren't supposed to be perfectly pure—I don't believe that's possible for a human."

"Sounds like you're really serious about religion, Nydia. I mean, don't take that the wrong way … so am I. It's serious business."

"I … would like to know more about it, yes. Tell me, Sam: can you still be a Christian and lust after someone?"

"I don't know, Nydia. That's a human trait, isn't it? Yes, I think you can, if you recognize the fault and try to do something about it. I think being a Christian means believing in God, trying to do right by his Commandments. I think it all depends on how a person lives his or her total life: do you help others in need; try to think good thoughts; do the best you can? Those types of things." He smiled. "Are you lusting after someone, Nydia?"

"Yes." She put her hand on his and squeezed gently.

Sam returned the gentle caress. "I couldn't take my eyes off you after we met."

"I felt the same. And … Sam? It's funny, sort of. I got the feeling that it was … right. You know what I mean?"

"Yes. It was … odd. I've never felt anything like it. You know, we're going to have to be careful: your mother reads thoughts."

"What do you mean, Sam?"

He told her of the events poolside.

Her expression was one of confusion. "I wonder why she kept that from me all these years?" She shyly rubbed her fingertips on the back of his hand. "Roma is also lusting after you—and she'll have you, Sam."

He shook his head.

"Yes, she will. Roma always gets what she wants. One way or the other. Don't anger her, Sam—please. I'm afraid of her; always have been. I … can't say more. Not until I'm more certain of the thoughts in my mind."

"Hey," Sam said. "Let's not get heavy with this, Nydia. I have an idea. Let's go exploring this afternoon. Hike in the woods. You want to do that?"

"Yes," she said, her voice a caress.

"Hey, you lovebirds!" Black called from the door. Sam and Nydia looked up, both slightly embarrassed. "Just call me the little ole matchmaker, huh?"

He walked to the buffet line and fixed a plate, sitting down at the table.

"Really, Black," Sam smiled, "you can't blame me, can you? She's positively gorgeous."

"Really?" the brother questioned. "I always thought she was rather plain."

Nydia stuck out her tongue at him and rose from the table.

"Sis?" Black caught her arm. "Sit down for a second, will you? I owe you both an apology." They looked at him. "Yeah, I forgot to tell you: I invited some others up here."

"Who?" Nydia's tone was sharp.

"Oh, you know them all, sis: Lana, Linda, Carol, Susan—a few more. Then there's Adam, Chad, Burt, Mac … some others. I was going to tell you both, but it just slipped my mind."

"Thanks, brother," Nydia said, fire flickering in her eyes. "A couple of those you named are okay; the test are creeps. I cannot tolerate them."

"Give them a chance, sis. That's all I ask. You just don't know them."

"That's the problem, brother dear: I do know them. I'll get the cook to pack us a lunch, Sam. Let's go as quickly as possible." She whirled and left the room, her anger evident in her step.

"You and sis have plans, Sam?"

"Hiking, exploring some."

"Be careful, and don't get lost," Black cautioned with a grin. "It's pretty wild out there."

"Oh, I'll be careful, Black. Like you, I've had some pretty extensive training in staying alive."

The young men locked glances, Black finally saying, "Yes, that's true. I've often wondered just which one of us is the tougher."

Sam's smile was tight. "I hope you never have to find out, Black."

Sam left it at that.

Sam had more of his father in him than even his mother suspected, for he never traveled unprepared. In his rooms, after dressing in jeans, heavy shirt, and jump boots, Sam slid a heavy-bladed knife, in its leather sheath, onto his belt. And he had brought with him—quite illegally—a snub-nosed .38 pistol. He slipped that into a pocket of his jacket and then knocked on Nydia's door.

"You ready, Nydia?"

The door opened and she stood before him, a young lady just as beautiful in jeans and rough shirt as in a ballroom gown.

"You look good enough to eat," Sam told her.

"I've thought about that, too," she said, a smile on her lips.

Sam cleared his throat and decided to shift gears and head in another direction. "Nydia? Why don't you like those people Black invited up here?"

"You don't know?" she seemed surprised. "I guess not. They have a … cult at Nelson and Carrington. They've tried several times to get me to join. I refused."

"What kind of cult?"

"They practice Devil worship."

FOUR

Sam did not realize just how isolated they were until he and Nydia got into the deep timber on the edge of the big park just north of the Williams' home. The dark timber closed around them about 500 meters from the edge of the estate.

"Beautiful," Sam said. "So beautiful and peaceful."

Nydia started to reply when three shots cut through the crisp air. Sam instinctively grabbed for the pistol in his coat, checking his movement just before touching the inner pocket. Nydia caught the quick movement and smiled.

"It's a signal to return to Falcon House," she said. "Come on. It might be important."

"Sir," Perkins said, "there was a radio message for you just moments after you left. In the communications room. Mr. Falcon is waiting."

"The message is rather terse, Sam." Falcon handed him a slip of paper. "I do hope this will not alter your plans to visit with us."

Sam did not reply until he had read the message: MONTREAL FLIGHT 127 1922-58 J.A. He looked into Falcon's dark, unreadable eyes. "This is it?"

"That was the entire message, Sam. I asked for a repeat, and that was it."

"Well, I guess I have to get to Montreal somehow."

"We'll take the Rover," Nydia said. "Go together."

"Now, dear …" Roma opened her mouth to protest.

Daughter met mother, head to head, with an unwavering look. "I know the roads, Mother. Sam doesn't. So I'm going with him." There was a firmness to her voice that said she would brook no more objections.

Roma smiled. "Of course, dear. I was only going to suggest you change into something more suitable for the trip."

"Certainly you were, Mother." Nydia's smile and tone were just short of condescending. "But we'll go as we are. Come on, Sam." She pulled at his arm. "We'll be there in a few hours."

Driving away from the estate, Nydia asked, "Sam, what does 1922-58 mean? The time?"

"I don't think so. Could be, but I doubt it. 1922 was the year my dad was born. '58 was when he died."

"J.A.?"

"My mother's initials."

Nydia shuddered beside him.

"Cold?" Sam asked.

"No. Suddenly frightened. For some reason. I just got the worst feeling of ... I don't know: foreboding, I guess I'd call it."

"Nydia?"

She glanced at him.

"I have the same feeling."

Flight 127 came in and emptied its load of passengers. Sam knew no one on the flight. Sam and Nydia sat in the now deserted arrival area, looking at each other, questions unspoken in their eyes.

"Son?" the disembodied-sounding voice came from behind the young couple. Sam was conscious of a burning sensation in the center of his chest.

They turned, looking around. No one was in sight. Nydia dug nervous fingers into Sam's forearm. "Son? Was that what that voice said?"

"Easy now," Sam attempted to calm her. His own nerves were rattled.

"Sam?" she said. "Look on the table in front of us."

Sam slowly, almost reluctantly pulled his gaze to the front. A manila envelope lay on the low table. "That … wasn't there a second ago."

"I know."

Again, they looked around them: the arrival area and the corridor were deserted. They both stared at the envelope.

Sam touched the packet. It was cold to the touch. He picked it up and carefully opened it. A picture and several sheets of paper. The picture was of his father. Sam looked at the 8 x 10 for a long moment, then handed it to Nydia. "My dad," his words were charged with emotion, spoken in a husky tone.

"I can see where you got your good looks," she said. "He was a rugged, handsome man. Sam? Who put the envelope on the table, and who was that who spoke to you? And where did he go? Sam, there was no one within shouting distance."

There was a slight grimace of pain on Sam's face.

"Sam?"

"I don't know the answer to any of those questions, Nydia. But I'll tell you this: when that voice spoke, my chest started burning. It's just now going away, but man, did it hurt for a few seconds."

"Your chest?"

"The skin on my chest. Right in the center." He looked around them: no one in sight. Sam unbuttoned his shirt, hearing Nydia's gasp as his T-shirt came into view. "Relax, I'm not going to strip." He tried a grin. "At least not here."

"That's not it, Sam," she said, her voice tiny. "Look at your T-shirt; the center of your chest."

He looked down: the fabric was burned brown. In the shape of a cross. The cross Sam wore. His father's cross.

Nydia reached out, pulling up his T-shirt. The cross had burned his skin, leaving a scar in the shape of a cross. Sam touched the red scar; it was no longer painful, even though he could see it was burned deeply.

Sam unfolded the pages and almost became physically ill. The handwriting was unmistakably his father's scrawl. Sam had seen it many times on old sermons.

"Sam? You're as white as a ghost!"

"I … think that's what just spoke to me. My father wrote this."

The young man wiped his suddenly blurry eyes and once more looked at the writing, reading slowly, Nydia silently reading with him.

Son—Writing is difficult for me, in my condition. Want to keep this as brief as possible, but yet, there are so many things I must say to you and the girl.

"How … ?" Nydia said, then shook her head, not believing any of this.

I have watched you, son—whenever possible—grow through the years. Tried to guide you—help you—as best I could. Nydia, too. The girl beside you, not the Nydia I … knew. Like that time you got drunk in your mother's car and passed out at the wheel. That was a close one, boy.

"I'm the only person in this world who knew about that," Sam said.

Nydia said, "In this world, yes." She looked at the young man, wondering why she said that.

Give the cross you wear around your neck to the girl. Do it, son, without delay. Time is of the essence.

Sam removed the cross from his neck and handed it to Nydia. "Put it on," he said. He could see she was, for some reason, softly crying.

No one will be able to remove that cross from her. No one. I cannot guarantee she will not be hurt, but … well, you must have faith.

Now then, a cruel blow for each of you, for I know your thoughts: Nydia is your half sister.

"Oh, my God!" Sam said.

When I knew her mother, Roma was not her name. Her name was Nydia. She is of and for the Devil. She is a witch. After the hooved one attempted to take over the town of Whitfield—and failed, then—during which Wade, Anita, Chester, Tony, Jane Ann, Miles, Doris, and myself killed hundreds of Coven members, I made a bargain with our God to save your mother and what few Christians remained. I won, in a sense. But so did the woman you know as Roma. I killed, or at least sent back to Hell, Black Wilder, the Devil's representative. Your half brother, son, Black, is named for Wilder. And like that spawn of Hell, he is a warlock.

When you leave this terminal, the both of you must go to a Catholic church; get as much holy water as you can. You will need it.

I must rest for a moment. Writing is not something one does where I reside.

Sam glanced at Nydia. Half sister? She met his eyes, read his thoughts. "I don't care." Sam shook his head in confusion and returned to the letter.

It would be wrong, son, to say the Devil is back, for that one never leaves the earth; so I'll simply say he has returned to Whitfield. There will soon be a great tragedy in Whitfield, and I must be there to help your mother, for her ordeal involves both of us … and the girl. There will be no survivors from Whitfield. None.

"Mother … ?" Sam whispered. And as if Balon had anticipated the question, the letter continued:

She has made her choice. Tony has gone over to the other side. He has done so willingly; indeed, a long time ago. I could not stop him, for his faith is weak, as is his flesh. And that is something you will have to deal with as well.

You have a mission, Sam, and 1 do not envy you your task, for it may destroy you … not necessarily physically, and I can say no more about that. But you are as surely set to this mission as I was, years ago. You will be tempted, and you will fall to some of those temptations, for you are a mortal, blessed, in a manner of speaking, but still a mortal.

A Coven is being established at Falcon House. It is a house of evil, and you must return there. Your job is there. You will not be able to contact anyone in Whitfield. Whitfield is dead; past saving. But your mother will speak to you—in some way—before she slips through the painful darkness to the other side and to peace and blue and light.

We will meet someday, son. I am certain of that and can tell you no more about my surety.

The feelings you and the girl share is something that you both must cope with. I cannot help you, and will not lecture you. But I will say this: the union that produced Nydia was not a holy union. If anything, it was blessed by the Dark One.

"Riddles," Sam said. "The letter is filled with riddles, and I don't know what they mean."

I love you deeply, Sam, and wish I could be of more help to you in your task. But I have said too much already.

Now … I must go. Place the picture of me in the envelope, for that is all of me I can give you that will remain tangible. Put the letter on the table and do not touch it again.

Love, Father

Sam placed the picture in the envelope, the letter on the table. Together, still in mild shock, not knowing what to believe, the young man and young woman watched the pages dissolve into nothing. Then they were alone.

Nydia put her head on Sam's shoulder and wept.

"I have done all I can do to help Sam," said the silent voice as it pushed out of the mist and into the sleeping brain of Jane Ann.

She sat up on the couch, rubbing her eyes. "When did you see Sam?"

"About a minute ago, in Montreal."

"Neat trick, since you're in front of me at this moment. I won't pursue how you managed that."

"That would be best. You will understand soon enough."

"A time warp?"

"There is no time in my world. A year is the blink of an eye. Drop it, Janey."

"All right." She stared hard at the misty face of the only man she had ever loved. "Tell me this: how did our son look?"

"Considering the circumstances, well … and confused, upset." The misty face smiled, then projected, "bewitched, bothered, and bewildered."

"Oh, Sam!"

"Now you see why He is constantly calling me on the carpet … so to speak. Our son is falling deeply in love."

Jane Ann smiled. "How wonderful."

"With his half sister."

"You were a rounder before you came to Whitfield, weren't you?"

"Yes, but … well, I'll explain at a later date."

"I'm not sure I want to hear about it."

"As you wish. But don't jump to conclusions."

She glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel. "Tony might be back for lunch any moment."

"Tony will never again set foot in this house, Jane Ann. Not for any decent purposes, that is."

"I don't understand."

"You will."

"Miles?" Doris called down the basement steps. "What are you doing?"

"I keep telling you and telling you: I am building a golem. So stay out of here. No telling what this thing might get in its head to do."

"How can a thing with clay for brains get something into its head?"

"I don't care to argue with you." A moment of heavy silence. Miles looked up. She was still standing in the doorway.

"I believe you, Miles," she said quietly.

"Oh?" his voice drifted up, full of disbelief. "So what changed your mind?"

"You remember me saying you were as crazy as a vontz—after you told me about speaking with Sam Balon?"

"How could I forget being called a bedbug? So?"

"He's … it's in the kitchen, now!"

"So ask him to take a seat. I'll be right up."

"Wade? I cannot believe you are seriously considering taking part in this insanity!"

"Honey, you didn't see Sam last night, either."

"Well, honey," she mimicked him, "neither did you. I warned you about that second piece of pie."

"Babe," he was very patient with her, "we've been through a lot together. I've tried to bring you along easy this time. But time is up. Look around you, honey—look at the houses we're passing, the people sitting on the porches. Any of them waving at us? Any of them calling for us to stop, have a cup of coffee, like they used to do?"

She looked straight ahead, refusing to speak.

"He's here, Anita. He's back. The Dark One. Sam says this time Whitfield is through. He …"

"If your friend, the spirit man, is so all-fired blessed, why doesn't he just wave his hand and make all this …" Tears sprang into her eyes. "… hatefulness go away?"

"Did you pack like I asked you?"

She sighed. "Yes, Wade. I'll humor you until we can get you to a mental hospital."

"Anita, old gal," he spoke softly. "My wife of so many very good years, listen to me. We're not going to make it out of this. We're going to die, and Sam says the only thing he can do is make it as easy for us as possible."

"How considerate of him."

Wade turned into the drive, parking by the corner street lamp. "We're here, honey."

"Oh, goody!" she clapped her hands. "Do I get to see the monster man and Sam Balon? A double treat? Oooh, I can hardly wait. This is better than the county fair."

Wade held her hand as they walked up the sidewalk and up the steps to the porch. Doris opened the door.

"Thank God!" Anita cried. "A face I know is normal and a mouth that is not raving about things that go bump in the night."

"I'll get the luggage out of the car," Wade said.

Anita stepped into the house and stopped dead still in the living room. A huge gray object, in the shape of a man, a giant man, stood against the wall across the room. It was at least eight and a half feet tall. It was faceless.

She turned to ask Doris what that thing was, was this some kind of a joke and what's the occasion for a party? She dropped her purse on the carpet as her eyes found the mist hovering just above the carpet by a chair.

"I believe you know Reverend Sam Balon," Doris said.

Anita fainted.

They had gone to a hardware store and bought several containers, then went to half a dozen Catholic churches seeking holy water. The priests, once they saw the young couple was sincere, asked no questions but merely gave them as much holy water as they wished.

"I just don't know … if my mind can … accept all that's been thrown at me this day," Nydia said. "But a lot of things are beginning to fall into place."

"Explain that?" Sam asked. They were halfway back to the Williams' mansion, eating a mid-afternoon lunch by the side of the road. The lunch they were supposed to have eaten while exploring the woods.

"Well … this is only a small part of it, Sam, but have you ever been in a home that didn't have some religious paraphernalia … somewhere? A painting, a cross, a Bible … something? I haven't. Our house is bare of anything religious. But … that could be explained away by the fact that Roma and Falcon don't go to church. But I know what an upside down cross means, and both Roma and Falcon have those in their rooms. Roma, Falcon, and Black always go somewhere on Friday nights—they stay all night—always returning just before dawn. And they all wear the same kind of medallion."

"I'm surprised they haven't tried to make you wear one."

"Oh, they have, dozens of times, beginning when I was just a small child. But it always irritated my neck; caused great ugly rashes; made me sick, very sick. The last time, just a couple of years ago, Roma threw the medallion away. It was gold, Sam! Worth hundreds of dollars, and she just tossed it into the garbage. She flew into a screaming rage and kept saying: 'Damn that son of a bitch! Black Wilder, you knew this was going to happen. And damn that bastard preacher.' I didn't know what she was talking about, Sam. Raving was more like it. And I didn't ask."

"Dad wrote about Black Wilder. The Devil's representative. The preacher must have been Dad."

She covered his hand with hers. "Sam? For years they've kept it from me—or tried to—but they practice evil. I can't prove it, for they're very careful. But I know they do. That house is evil. The people who work for them are evil. And Jimmy Perkins … the way he looks at me. Something about him frightens me."

"I wish I could recall where I've heard that name."

They looked up as a huge Sikorsky helicopter flapped and roared overhead. The helicopter, capable of carrying sixteen passengers, was soon out of sight.

"Heading for the house," Nydia said glumly. "Poor Lana and the others. They don't have any idea what they're getting into."

"Lana?"

"Lana McBay. Small, blond, and very pretty. Doesn't date much. Word is . . . around the school … she's a virgin." Nydia paused for a moment, a reflective look on her face. "Come to think of it, the word is that several of those girls Black mentioned are supposed to be virgins. Linda, for sure, so the talk goes. But … I don't much like her."

"Why?"

Her reply was a noncommittal shrug.

"Does Falcon like his women young?"

"Oh, yes," she quickly replied. "For a fact. I've seen him looking at me in a way that makes me very uncomfortable. Just like Jimmy."

"Have either of them ever tried anything with you?"

"Oh, no. Never."

"Tell me about Falcon. You know he isn't your real father. Has he been around long?"

"For as long as I can remember. There isn't much else to tell. I … really don't know where they get their money—either of them. I was told they both owned interests in a number of factories and businesses, and that this is where they got their money. I do know mother owns a company that makes wine and perfume, another company that makes clothing for women. I've seen those businesses."

"Tell me about the people who run them. Those you had a chance to meet."

She was again reflective for a moment. "Yes, I see what you mean. They . . . seemed to be afraid of Roma, but yet … The sentence trailed into silence. "… The medallions. The top people all wore medallions, like mother and Falcon and Black."

"And the one your mother tried to make you wear?"

"Just like it."

"And did they ever meet on a Friday. Friday seems to hold some special significance."

"Yes. Several times. And it was just like I told you before: they would all disappear about dark and not return until almost dawn. Mother said it was business, and not to worry. I always had someone staying with me, a sitter or companion. Sam? I'm frightened. I don't want to go back to that house."

"We have to go back, Nydia. I don't believe we could do anything else."

"Sam, let's try. Let's see if we can just run away—go back to New York State. Please? Let's try."

Sam hesitated, not wanting to risk angering his father—if any of this was real, and not a dream. He wavered, sensing that Nydia's fear was very close to overwhelming her.

"We'll try," he said.

But the four-wheel would not start. Sam complained of his chest burning, and the cross around Nydia's neck had begun to glow.

"All right, Dad," Sam said. "We get the message."

The four-wheel started; the burning and the glowing ceased.

"All that could have been a fluke," Nydia suggested.

Sam turned around, heading back to Montreal. The four-wheel died in the middle of the road. The burning and the glowing began again.

Nydia said, "All right, Mr. Balon—no more. We'll go back."

The four-wheel started; the glowing and the burning faded.

"Any doubts now?" Sam asked.

She shook her head. "But where do we start, Sam?"

"At Falcon House."

FIVE

"What do we do?" Anita asked. She had recovered from her shocked state and sat sipping tea, her gaze alternating between the mute huge, motionless clay man and the mist that was Balon.

"Wait," Balon projected. "None of you can start it. The golem will not kill without some overt provocation toward one of you."

"What … can that thing do?" Wade asked.

"It has the strength of twenty men. It cannot be stopped by anything mortal. A golem is all things of earth. But none of you need concern yourself with the mysteries of the cosmos. The golem will have no will other than what I give it."

Outside, although the day was bright and clear and warm, thunder rattled the windows of the house.

"Excuse me," Balon said. "No will except that which we give it."

The thunder ceased.

Miles said a very quick and fervent prayer, while Anita clutched at a small Bible.

Wade seemed amused. Doris looked at him and said, "You find this amusing?"

"He's still a reporter at heart," Sam said.

"I have personally witnessed one of the greatest stories a reporter could possibly witness, back in 1958," Wade replied. "And am about to witness another. And I am unable to write about either. Pity."

"The whole town—all our friends—have turned against us," Anita said bitterly. "And all you can think about is reporting a story."

"Our friends are dead," Wade replied. "Just like before. They have rejected the teaching of the Almighty and of His Son, Jesus Christ. They have made their choice. So be it."

"I'll go along with the Almighty part," Miles said. "The bit about His Son …?" He waggled his hand. "I got to see it to believe it."

Sam Balon seemed amused by the exchange.

"Him, now," Doris said, looking at the misty form. "He could clear it all up . . . if he would."

"He can't even clear himself up so we can get a look at him." Miles grinned.

"STOP IT!" Anita screamed. "It isn't a joke, my God! I can't take this joking about … our deaths!"

Wade put an arm around her, pulling her to him. "I think it's the best way to hide our fears, honey. But you're right; it is no joking matter."

"Everything mortals question will be explained," Balon projected. "In time."

Anita pushed her husband from her, took a deep breath, and glared at the mist form that was once her minister. "I believed in you with all my heart and faith twenty years ago, Brother Balon. I'll do the same now."

"Good," Balon said.

"Someone's walking up the sidewalk," Miles said.

"Jane Ann," Balon projected. "I asked her to come over for a time."

"She is going to stay with us, isn't she?" Doris asked.

"No. The Clay Man will protect you. I will stay with Jane Ann. You will all know why that must be at a later time.

Miles laughed. "See, momma—who says there ain't sex after life?"

"Miles!" she whirled around, glaring at him. "You shut your mouth with talk like that." Her face suddenly split into a wide grin. "Besides, for the past five years that's all you've been able to do: talk!"

Miles reddened, then grinned. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his thin chest. He had a retort, but thought it best to keep it to himself.

"I agree," Balon said to him.

Miles looked startled for a few seconds, then smiled. "No bad jokes up … there, huh?" He pointed upward.

"You'll see," Balon said.

A cup of Doris's good tea beside her, Jane Ann looked at the small gathering. "Out of the entire town, all this part of Fork, this is it, Sam?"

"Yes. There were those who felt they were Christians. But as they are soon to learn, they were only fooling themselves. And they knew it all along."

"How sad," Anita said.

"It will be the end of Whitfield and this part of Fork County. There will be no more Beasts, no more black masses—there will be nothing."

"Do you mean," Wade asked, "this time we'll really beat the Devil?"

"No!" Balon's reply was emphatic. "No mortal can ever beat the Devil. Only God. And only when He is ready. The Prince of Darkness will just be through here, that's all. And hopefully in a certain part of Canada, as well. And do not ask me questions about that."

"When does God plan on beating the Devil, Sam?" Wade asked.

Balon said nothing.

"Strong silent type," Miles said.

"Shut up," his wife told him.

Miles sighed.

"I don't know if I'll be able to lie to Roma," Sam said. "She'll see I'm lying."

"About what we … saw, and heard?"

"Yes."

"Then … ?"

"I don't know. I don't know what to do, how to start, or even where to start, really. This is all so mind-boggling. Dad said the cross would protect us … but how much protection will it offer? So much of what he said was . . . unclear. How about the way I feel about you? Will … God," he stumbled over the word, "condone my lying? My feelings? I just don't know."

She moved her gaze from Sam's face to the road ahead. Falcon House reared up. "We're about to find out," she said tensely.

"A joke?" Roma said. "What a very bad joke to play." She could not read his thoughts, and that told her Sam was lying. It also told her that someone . . . probably Balon, was interfering; that he had been in some sort of communication with his son. That was nothing new to her: people could and did move quite freely from either side of the death line … providing one had the right connections with the Master of whatever world.

She peered hard at Sam. But she could not read his thoughts. She looked at her daughter, and for the first time since Nydia's birth, her mother could not read her.

And Nydia realized she had blocked her mother out. "Don't look so upset, Mother," she said innocently, the double meaning not lost on Roma.

Roma's returning gaze was tight. She managed a small smile. "A joke? Who would play such a crude joke on you? Bring you all the way to Montreal for a joke?"

"Kids back at Nelson, I suppose," Sam said.

"Well," Roma said, "it's over. You have both returned. And we have more guests. We'll have such a gala time this week. Both the east and the west wings are alive with young people."

And the Devil, Sam thought. He looked hard at Roma, thinking: Fuck you, bitch!

She merely smiled.

Ugly, Sam fired his thoughts. Ugly and old and vain and stupid.

The smile remained fixed, even softened just a bit.

And I'll bet you're a sorry screw!

Her expression did not change. "You both must be tired from the hurried drive," Roma said. "Why don't you have a bit of a rest and get cleaned up; join your friends later?"

"They are not my friends," Nydia said. "A very few I get along with; the rest are creeps."

'They are our guests!" Her mother's tone was sharp. "And you will be civil to them."

"I will ignore them whenever possible." Nydia stood her ground, facing up to her mother for the first time in her life.

High color rose to Roma's cheeks. "We shall discuss this later."

"No need for that, Mother." The reply was calmly stated. "I've said what I plan to do, and that is that."

Roma was inwardly fuming, but she managed a slight smile. Balon has worked his crappy Christian magic on my daughter, she thought. I wonder how many times over the years that sanctimonious stud has meddled in Nydia's affairs—and mine? No matter, for this time I have him boxed; he cannot be in two places at once, no matter if he is as obstinate as that warrior Michael, and just as militant.

"As you wish, Nydia," Roma said. "I must admit, you do have a great deal of your … father in you at times."

"Yes." Nydia smiled. "And I cannot tell you how proud that makes me."

I'll break you. Roma stared hard at the young woman. She shifted her gaze to Sam. And I'll break you as well. And when you are both mine, I'll breed you and have a grandchild that will make the Master proud. And if I can't do that, young people, then I'll give Nydia to Falcon to do with as he pleases. And I assure you, daughter, that will be an experience you will not savor.

"We'll see you at dinner, Roma," Sam said, taking Nydia's hand. The gesture did not go unnoticed by the mother.

Roma nodded her head only slightly, her eyes unreadable. "Yes," she said. She turned and walked away.

"She is very angry," Nydia said.

"Not nearly as angry as she'll be when she sees that cross around your neck."

"Or the burn on your chest."

"Probably be best if we don't swim after this."

"That was to be my next suggestion." She squeezed his hand as they walked down the hall to their rooms. "Sam? I'm not afraid any longer."

"I don't know whether that's good or bad. But neither am I."

"Wonder why?"

"I don't know. And I'll tell you something else: I cannot think of you as my half sister."

'Then don't."

"How come," Sam said, his grin identical to his father's mischievous grin, "if I'm supposed to be so holy all of a sudden, my thoughts are so sexy?"

"I don't know about that." Her hips brushed his, the touch charged with wanton longing. "But mine aren't exactly pristine."

"Are we both awful?" Sam's question was spoken in all seriousness.

"No." The young woman's reply held the same weighty tone. "I think we're just being honest."

"What … do we do about it?"

They walked slowly through the great house.

"Give it some time," she said. They were at her door. She lifted her eyes to his. "I'll keep the door between our rooms unlocked."

"It's to be my decision alone?"

She said, "My mind is already made up." She opened the door and stepped into her room. The door closed softly behind her.

Sam showered quickly and dried off, stepping into underwear shorts. He padded barefoot into his bedroom to stand in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror. The dark, thick mat of hair on his chest looked strange with the burned-on scar of the cross directly in the center. He wondered if the hair would ever grow back.

He gazed into his mirrored reflection. "I have a mission." He repeated his father's words, speaking in a whisper. "And it may destroy me. I will be tempted, and fall to some of those temptations."

He wondered if his father had been writing of Nydia or Roma, or both? Then he decided his father had been referring to Roma.

He stepped away from the mirror and carefully hid the containers of holy water. He opened the manila envelope and sat on the edge of the bed, studying the 8 x 10 of his father. He was still gazing at the 8 x 10 when the knock sounded on the hall door.

Slipping into a robe, Sam opened the door. Adam Benning stood in the hall, smiling at him.

"Sam." Adam stuck out his hand. "Bet you're surprised to see me?" It was spoken in a greasy manner.

The two young men did not get along well. Although the same age, Adam was a senior while Sam was a freshman. And Adam was a sly, sneaky type . . . the type Sam didn't like.

Sam shook the offered hand. It was clammy and soft. Sam resisted the urge to wipe his hand on his robe. "Yes, I am. Black didn't tell us he had invited others."

Adam grinned lewdly. "Thought you'd have Nydia all to yourself, huh?"

Sam stared at him just long enough for Adam to begin to feel uncomfortable under the unblinking gaze. "I think I'll lie down for a time, Adam. So if you'll excuse me … ?"

Adam flushed hotly, clenching his hands into fists at his side. "Well, there's always one, I guess; always one person that has to screw up a good thing."

"Meaning me, Adam?"

"You might learn a thing or two up here, Sam. It should be interesting."

"Maybe more than you realize," Sam replied.

Adam's smile was ugly. He stalked away without shutting the door. Sam turned at a slight noise behind, tensing, then relaxing as the connecting door to Nydia's room opened. She stepped into the room and Sam closed the hall door, locking it.

"I've got an idea, Sam," she said, moving closer to him. He could smell the clean scent of bath soap, and the ends of her raven hair were slightly damp from the shower. A pulse beat strongly in her throat.

It was not a holy union, his father's words returned to him.

Sam could see she was wearing nothing under her robe, from the waist up. He could but guess about from the waist down.

If anything, it was blessed by the Dark One.

Sam pushed his father's words from his mind. "I'll be glad to hear your ideas, Nydia." His voice was husky. "I sure don't have any." Boy, what a lie!

"Your dad may not like this," she warned, taking another step closer to him.

"My dad dumped this … mission in my lap." Sam's tone was a bit sarcastic. "And if you're listening, Dad, I'm sorry. But I don't know what to do."

"Let's play along for a time," she suggested. "I mean … can we leave? I don't think so. I found out my mother can't read me as before, and I suspect your dad had something to do with that. But the strangest thing has happened, Sam …"

He arched an eyebrow at her pause, very much aware that that was not the only part of him that was beginning to arch upward. He resisted an impulse to fold his hands over his crotch.

"I can pick up on your thoughts, now," she said, smiling. "And yes, Sam, I am wearing panties."

And she deliberately chose not to wear a bra. The thought popped into Sam's mind.

"You see?" she said. "It's not exactly reading a mind as much as just guessing accurately what the other has done or is about to do."

She wants me to kiss her. Sam sensed that mental push very strongly.

"So do it, Sam. Before I change my mind."

He stepped off the short distance between them with as much mixed emotion as when he first hurled himself out the open door of a plane, back in jump school. The one main difference being, he recalled, he did not have a hard-on back then.

"How crude," Nydia whispered. She was slightly tense as his hands cupped her face.

"We're going to have to do something about this new power of ours."

"First things first," she said, her lips trembling as her hands found his lean waist and pulled him to her.

Sam kissed her mouth, her throat, her neck, as their hips met in a frontal assault, as frenzied an attack as storming a beachhead.

And then, as they both would later recall, events began happening as if they were really above it all, watching two distinctly different beings in the room.

Her gown dropped to the carpet in a silken rustle of fabric, and his eyes became as greedy as his searching mouth. She pulled the waistcord to his robe and it parted. One touch from her hand and a shrug of his shoulders and robe made contact with gown on the floor.

Her pantie was no more than a thin strip of almost diaphanous silk, the lushness of womanhood vividly outlined, a perfumed jungle resting at the completion of gently curving belly.

"I am not perfection," she told him, thoughts mingling and meeting invisibly.

"You are to me," he replied.

She wore nothing except the gold cross, nestling between her breasts.

His shorts joined her panties on the floor and they were content to stand naked in the center of the room, their lips touching gently, minds speaking volumes of silent words.

"I can't believe it's wrong," she said.

"Nor I."

She ran her hand down his flat, ridged belly to grasp his maleness, fingers encircling the thickness. "Will it hurt me?" she asked, her voice throaty with passion and trembly from anticipation.

And he knew she was telling him she was a virgin. "I … don't know."

The bed seemed the most logical place to answer any number of questions, and they were soon there, without either of them realizing they had traversed the short distance.

His lips found the hardness of nipple and his tongue brought them to jutting nubs of excitement, while his hand traveled over the silkiness of belly to touch the edge of pubic hair and beyond: touching, lingering, fondling the wet lips and extended clitoris, finally moving to caress and part the folds of her, entering the soul of womanhood while she breathed words into his mouth as they clung to each other, joined at the lips.

She found his maleness, hard and eager, and with a knowledge that is inbred, began stroking him, finding to her astonishment and delight, the muscle of love thickening and hardening even more under her soft hand.

She clutched almost frantically at him, whispering, "Now, Sam! Now!"

He shifted on the bed and was between her legs, positioning himself. He gently placed the source of his manhood against the outer fold of woman and gently pushed, penetrating only a bit. She sighed under him, arching her hips upward, willingly asking for and receiving more of what she had desired since the moment of introduction only a few hours before.

Sam slowly and with a tiny bit of pain pushed the length of him into the hot wetness of woman, then slowly withdrew. And from that moment on, it was a battle with no losers; a war of silk and fire and passion; an ageless confrontation between man and woman … but it was more than that. It was a time of pain and pleasure for the both of them as they dueled on the bed, turning the sheets into a satiny battleground, a mixture of scents, a tangle of flesh. It seemed to them to stop time, to halt the forward movement of that which is unstoppable except for that brief time between the cessation of the heart and the soul exiting the cooling flesh.

Nydia began low whimpering sounds, shedding a few hot tears, not from pain or guilt, although one of those would come later, but from the knowledge, the signals her body was sending to her brain, that this deliciousness, this first time that would never again be the same, was about to end. Several small orgasms had shaken her, wavering almost sinfully through her, but as that one huge climax began its grip on her, she fought to hold on. But it was not to be. She grabbed almost too tightly at Sam's shoulders, pulling his mouth to hers as a feeling unlike anything she had ever before experienced ripped through her like the bow of an ice cutter charging through thick ice.

Sam exploded within her, his juices mingling with hers, a volcanic eruption of fluid that spread its warmth around the silken walls of the ultimate entrapment of male and female.

Nydia wrapped her legs around his and pulled him to her until it seemed there was only one person on the bed: a huge double-headed, many limbed creature. She shivered slightly as he softened within her, and she sighed as he withdrew from this battle. Not retreating, merely recouping resources. She kissed him, and he returned the touching of lips with a gentleness that was almost sad.

And they slept. Together. And the two were not alone.

Sam awakened once at the sound of a gentle knocking on the door. He fumbled for his clothes and padded barefoot to the door. The hall was empty, but two trays of food were beside the door. He took the trays in and placed them on the dresser. He wasn't hungry, and Nydia was deep in sleep. He crawled back into bed, and she nestled her warmth against him.

The food was forgotten.

"I have been blocked," Falcon said to Roma. "I cannot tell what is happening with Balon's son and Nydia. Is He interfering?"

"Indirectly, I believe. Through Balon, I am sure. My daughter and Sam now have powers even they do not realize they possess. And I do not understand that. I have attempted to speak with the Master, but I have been unable to do so. That distresses me."

"Roma?" Falcon lingered over the word, drawing it out as his mind raced. "Perhaps … yes! I sense the battleground has been marked; the Master of Light and the Prince of Darkness have finally agreed on something."

"They haven't agreed on anything for thousands of years. Except Their mutual dislike of each other." She was silent as the implication of his words struck home. "You mean … you believe we are alone in this? That neither Master will interfere any further?"

"For now, yes, I do. For how long … ?" He shrugged eloquently, then put a finger to Roma's lips, a gesture of caution. "But I believe this, darling: should we fail here, we are through on earth."

She thought about that for a moment, her beauty marred by the ugliness of her deliberations. She laughed nastily. "Things seem to be repeating themselves. I'm beginning to believe our Master's sense of humor is equalled only by his lack of trustworthiness and loyalty."

"I hope you know what you are saying, for I surely don't."

"My sins—I hate that word!—have come home to roost." She smiled. "Isn't that a quaint expression? A colloquialism, really. I picked it up in Alabama, right after the American Civil War. Excuse me, the War Between the States. I plotted against Black Wilder more than twenty years ago. Someone in this house is plotting against me."

"Not I!" Falcon drew himself to his full height, indignant that she would even think him guilty of such treason.

She laughed darkly. "No," she said patting his arm, "not you, Falcon. Even for a warlock you have an inordinate sense of honor and loyalty. And we have known and liked each other for too many centuries."

"Then … that leaves only …" He refused to speak the name.

But Roma had no such reluctance. "Yes. My son. Black. He is … strange, even for us. And he is also young, ambitious, and, I have to admit it: he possesses my genes and none of his father's."

"But surely the young man realizes his power is not yet equal to yours; will not be until he leaves this life and assumes his true role in the ways of the arts." Falcon shook his head. "But … you are right. Black is … odd, even for us."

Her gaze silenced him. "I don't wish to discuss my son's pederastic tendencies. It is not forbidden by our Master." She sighed and waved her hand. "But you are correct, of course. He does go too far at times. But I have had many offspring—some good, some bad." A thought sprang into her mind; a thought she did not share with Falcon.

"If we are alone here," Falcon mused. "I wonder if the same applies in Whitfield?"

"Probably. I feel Balon is there, looking after his precious Jane Ann. I never could understand what he saw in her. No tits."

SIX

"Explain a golem to me, Sam," Jane Ann said.

They were in her home, after having spent hours with Miles and Doris, Wade and Anita. Tony and some of his friends from the Coven had been to the house, and had, in the vernacular of the young, trashed it, writing filthy sentences on the walls, stating plainly what they were going to do with Jane Ann.

But Balon's Bible had not been touched. It sat on the small table like a sentry on duty.

Jane Ann had cleaned up the house and painted over the nasty words and obscene drawings.

"There is no such thing as a golem," Balon thrust his reply.

"But that … creature standing in the corner in Miles's living room!"

"Yes."

"Then it is real?"

"All things are real. Mythology is real. Dreams are real. Evil is real."

"Sam … you're being vague."

"In a sense. But really, I am telling you all that I can."

"All right," she said after a time. "I think I see. If we believe in it, it is real. But if someone does not, it doesn't exist." She waved her hand toward the outside.

"But … will they believe in it?"

"Oh, yes. Be assured of that."

"God must have a sense of humor."

"He created humans, didn't He?"

And the clock in the hall chimed its message: it was Friday. The horror was about to begin.

Sam awakened with his arms full of soft, warm nakedness and his heart pounding. But he did not awaken with a start. He wondered why his heart was hammering so violently in his chest? He opened his eyes, looking around the dimly lit room. He saw the trays of food on the dresser and remembered bringing them in. Nothing else was disturbed. He listened but could hear nothing. He glanced at his watch on the nightstand and knew then what had awakened him. It was just past midnight. Friday. But what was so special about that? Friday? The day Satan is worshiped, of course.

He gently brought Nydia out of sleep.

"I love you," she whispered. "And I don't think it is wrong." She smiled. "And I must look awful."

"No, you're beautiful." He picked up his watch. "Look at the time."

"Oh, God! No wonder no one checked on us."

"What do you mean?"

"It's Friday. They would all probably be at the circle of stones, behind the house. I used to ask them what they did out there, but I would get such silly answers I finally quit asking. Something about star-gazing was what they finally settled on. I never did believe it."

"Nydia? You're holding something back from me."

"Yes."

"Tell me?"

"It … isn't time, Sam. I will. I promise."

He thought of her statement in the four-wheel about knowing a lot about him. He shrugged it off. "You mentioned something about that circle of stones this afternoon while we were eating at the park. It triggered something in me then; the same thing happened now. There is something about a circle that is whispered about back in Whitfield—used to be, anyway." He paused. "Sure. Now I remember. Kids used to say that was where the Devil lived. That must be where Dad met the Devil. Oh, damn, Nydia! How much of this is real and how much is not? What in God's name are we supposed to believe and do? I don't know. I do know this: I want to see this circle of stones. We'll go out there tomorrow."

"Are you out of your mind?"

He ignored that, for he believed he just might be … for a number of reasons. "Can we see it from the house?"

"Faintly. From that window." She pointed. "But you can't see it at night."

He slipped from her warmth and blew out the small lamp, plunging the room into darkness. He opened the drapes. "Nydia," he called. "We can see it."

"What do you mean?" She crawled from the big bed and came to his side, pressing against him. She gasped at the sight in the small clearing behind the mansion.

It was torch-lit.

"I've never seen that before," she said.

"It's begun," Sam said flatly, without fear. And Nydia picked up on the firmness in his voice. "The nine days have begun."

"Sam, what are you talking about? What nine days?"

He looked at her in the darkness of the room. "Nine days, honey. We have … they have, nine days. Don't ask me how I know. I just know. And I'll tell you something else: my knowing scares the shit out of me!"

In Whitfield, around the circle of stones, as behind Falcon House, the pledge was being chanted: "I renounce God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost."

And in both places, the Beasts growled their approval.

"I renounce and deny my Creator, the Holy Virgin, the Saints, Baptism, Father, Mother, Relations, Heaven, Earth, and all this world contains that is good, pure, and sacred."

They lifted their arms straight out in front of them and screamed: "Praise the power of the Prince of Darkness. For only he is the true Master.

"I give my body and mind to Satan. Praise be his name. My Master. None other than him. This I swear by all that is unholy."

And the Beasts of Satan howled their agreement, their eyes wild, jaws leaking drool. The Beasts began dancing: an obscene hunching and howling, dancing to the beat of music they alone could hear.

"Is there a gun room in this house?" Sam asked as they dressed. The drapes were closed, the room lighted. Somehow they both felt much more comfortable with the lights on.

"Yes. Falcon enjoys shooting." She grimaced a sudden distaste.

"What's wrong?"

"He likes to see animals suffer. He's an expert shot, but I've overheard servants talking—down through the years—that he'll deliberately shoot an animal where it will take it the longest to die. He likes to listen to a wounded animal scream."

"Nice fellow," Sam muttered. "The servants?"

"You mean can we trust them? No, I don't think so. They have all been with Roma for as long as I can remember. Especially Jimmy Perkins. He's a sneak. That's not the right word. He's a zombie."

"You may be more right than you think about that," Sam told her. "Come on—let's see this gun room. I want to see what Falcon has in stock."

They walked down the dimly lit hall, walking quietly but not stealthily, in case they met someone unexpectedly and aroused suspicion. Nydia stopped him at a doorway.

"The first of the guest rooms in this wing," she whispered. "This would be Adam's room. All the boys' rooms are on the left, girls' rooms on the right."

Sam cautiously opened the door and looked in. The room was deserted. "You take the girls' rooms," he told Nydia.

Only Mac and Howard were in their beds. When Sam tried to wake them, he could not. They were sleeping as if drugged. Which, he concluded, they probably were. Across the hall, four young women were in their beds: Judy, Lana, Linda, and Susan. Sleeping soundly. Too soundly. Sam shook Lana gently, then roughly. She could not be roused. He did the same with each of them; they could not be awakened. He noticed the heavy gold medallion on a chain around Susan's neck.

"They're all drugged," he told Nydia. "I guess. From now on we'd better be careful what we eat and drink. I'll bet you those trays of food I found outside the door to our rooms were drugged; that's why no one checked on us.

"Mother always uses the buffet line when we have this many guests. At least that's been her routine in the past."

"Routine can be dangerous," Sam said, remembering his training. "Lulls one into a false sense of security."

Nydia smiled. "Yes, Sergeant."

Sam slipped his arm around her waist and let his hand slip down to the curve of her buttocks. He gently caressed her.

"Don't start something you can't finish," she said. "And here in the hall would be a perfectly dreadful place to be caught making love."

Sam removed his hand.

She stopped them before they entered the foyer they had to cross to get to the gun room on the second floor. "I just remembered something: Falcon has a reject room in the basement. He spends hundreds of dollars—maybe thousands—on guns every year. If there is the slightest flaw: a scratch on the stock, a tiny bit of bluing that's wrong, anything … he won't have it. Just throws it in the reject room and forgets it."

"He doesn't return them?"

"No, never."

"That's the place for us, then. Take one of his favorite guns and he'd probably miss it. Where are the servants' quarters?"

"That way," she said, pointing. "First floor, in the back."

"Come on. 1 want to check there, too."

The servants' quarters were all empty.

"That answers another question," Sam said. "Come on, we'd better hurry." He wondered how long the ceremony at the circle of stones would last.

"It breaks up just before dawn," she said, reading his thoughts.

"Pretty good gimmick we have going," Sam said with a grin. "It may really come in handy before all this is over. I wonder how far we can project and read each other's thoughts?"

"We'll try tomorrow." She tugged at his arm. "Today, I mean. Come on, let's get to the reject room."

Sam selected a good shotgun and a high-powered rifle, then picked a pistol for Nydia. The weapons were all in good condition, except for needing cleaning and oiling. They were fine weapons, from old and skilled manufacturers. He stuffed his pockets with cartridges and had Nydia do the same. She was nervous, wanting to leave, but Sam wanted to prowl. He found a tarp-covered cache of camping equipment, loading them both down with shelter halves and blankets, rope and tent pegs. They filled two packs, then filled two smaller knapsacks. Finally Sam picked up two pairs of binoculars and steered Nydia toward the door.

"I feel like a beast of burden," she complained on the way back to their rooms. "Why do we need all these coils and coils of rope?"

Sam stopped in the dimly lit hall.

"What's wrong, Sam?"

"Beast. Why did that word spark something in me?"

"Black hasn't been trying to frighten you, has he?"

"What do you mean?"

"He likes to tell people about monsters that roam the timber in back of the house. No, he wouldn't tell you. He likes to tell girls, frighten them."

"No, it's more than that. Has something to do with Whitfield. Rumors of Beasts—Devil creatures. Are there beasts in the timber?"

"I … don't know, Sam. I've seen … something. Heard noises and sounds that … were not human, but yet, really not animal, either. But more animal than human. If that makes any sense. And once, when I was about, oh, twelve or thirteen, I suppose, I went walking one afternoon, back where Mother had told me never to go. The smell that came out of that hole in the ground was hideous. When I walked closer … I don't know how to explain this … the growl that came out of the hole was … not menacing as much as it sounded like a warning. To me. As if whatever it was in there was telling me to stay away. This sounds funny—odd, I mean—but it seemed to me like it was saying it didn't want to hurt me.

"Your mother, Falcon, Black … do they ever go back there?"

"Sure! It's just in back of the circle of stones. Big hole in the ground. I've been to the circle dozens of times since then. But no farther."

Sam thought of the tales the kids used to tell back in Whitfield: stories about monsters and Devil-Beasts, and about what happened to cause the state to fence off the area known as The Digging. And he remembered stories about deep holes in the ground: holes that emit a very foul odor. A hideous odor.

Just as they began walking the hall, a door slammed in the house. "Run!" Sam whispered, and they raced down the hallway, up the steps, and to their rooms. In their haste, neither noticed the cartridge fall from Nydia's pocket, the brass gleaming dully on the dark carpet.

Footsteps slowly tracked them, shuffling up the steps, down the hallway. They stopped, a hand reaching down, long, bony, pale fingers closing around the brass. Jimmy Perkins looked at the cartridge, grinning grotesquely. He put the cartridge in his pocket, then shuffled down the hall to Nydia's room. He stood for a moment, listening, his ear to the door.

Had to be that young man that Sam Balon fathered, he thought. Snooping with Nydia. Found Mr. Falcon's gun room. Both up to something. But, he grinned, almost chuckling, I won't tell Mr. Falcon. His smile grew more obscene. Maybe Miss Nydia would give him some of that tight young pussy in return for keeping his mouth shut? It was worth a try. He'd see about that if he didn't forget. He turned away to get the silver goblet he'd been sent to fetch. The thought of fucking Miss Nydia burned in his tormented mind. The front of his pants bulged.

"Jimmy Perkins," Nydia whispered. "He's the only one who walks with a shuffle. He's horrible!"

They flushed the food on the trays down the toilet, leaving just enough on the plates to satisfy any curious minds, then Sam began cleaning the guns, inspecting them, hiding them. He horseshoed the shelter halves, blankets inside the horseshoes, and fastened them to the backpacks after he and Nydia packed a few items of clothing, the ammunition, and most of the rope. They stowed the packs in the closet, behind some luggage. It was the best they could do, knowing it would not fool any thorough search.

"Tomorrow," Sam said, "we swipe some food from the kitchen: canned goods, anything that will keep without refrigeration. A sack full, at least. It'll be heavy, but it has to be."

"Are you planning on us running, Sam? Into the timber?"

"I … guess so, eventually." He looked into her serious eyes. "Nydia ... I don't really know what we're going to do. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I just wish Dad had been more specific. If that was my dad. I guess it was," he added lamely, and with a heavy sigh. "If he had told me: Sam, I want you to destroy that house and everyone in it—I would do it. Be doing it right now. But, Nydia, I just don't know what I'm supposed to do!"

"I know, Sam." She took his hands in hers. "I've been kind of … blocking everything out. That your dad said, I mean. Mother a witch. Falcon and Black warlocks." She tried a laugh that didn't come across. "It's something out of a very bad movie script. I want to believe—and do, in part, I guess—but another part of me says … Oh, Sam—I don't know. I'm like you: I'm so confused." She leaned forward and kissed his mouth. "But whatever happens, Sam, I know you'll take care of me." She said it confidently, with all the love and trust in her.

Sam put his arms around her, savoring the scent of her hair. He had to fight to keep his thoughts from becoming too negative.

Dad? Sam flung the plea into the darkness. Please tell me what I'm supposed to do.

Roma met them in the hall at midmorning. "Did you young people sleep well?" The question was asked with a smile.

Nydia returned the smile. "Almost as if we were drugged, Mother."

A pulse surged heavily in the older woman's neck, but her smile remained fixed. "I'm so glad you both rested well." She searched them both for thoughts, but as she suspected, she was blocked from their minds. "What do you two have planned for today?"

Plotting your total destruction, I suppose, Sam thought. "Nothing special. Might take a walk in the timber. It looks beautiful."

"Oh, but it is. Do return in time for a rest this afternoon," Roma said. "Falcon and I have such a gala evening planned."

Like what? Sam thought. Drinking human blood? "I promise we'll be in attendance, Roma."

"And you don't even know what we have planned," Roma said, smiling.

"Oh … I imagine something novel," Sam said dryly.

"At least that." Roma patted his cheek, her fingers warm on his flesh. She shifted her gaze to Nydia as her fingers lingered on Sam's cheek. "You're a lucky girl, Nydia. I hope you realize that."

"I know, Mother." The reply was softly stated. And you should see him with a full erection, she thought.

Crude, Nydia! Sam flung his thoughts.

Couldn't resist it.

The women smiled and purred at each other, their claws barely concealed, until Sam pulled Nydia away, toward the dining area. The large room was empty except for Lana and Susan. Linda and Judy had been sleeping when Nydia looked in on them before coming downstairs.

The rest of Black's young guests had not gotten in until just before dawn. They were still sleeping.

Sam and Nydia had no choice but to eat, for they were ravenous, not having eaten for eighteen hours. They would have to take a chance on the purity of the food. They filled their plates and joined the two young women.

"Hey, you two!" Lana beamed up at them. "We missed you yesterday. Heard you had to go into Montreal. Oh, Nydia, this home is so beautiful. Like something in a grand movie."

"It is that," Nydia said. A horror movie. But … how do I warn you?

We don't! Sam flung the thought into her brain. She has to find the true course herself.

How do you know that? she silently asked, calmly eating her breakfast.

I just do. Someone … or something is telling me. Perhaps later they will tell me differently.

And Sam counted Susan as among the lost when she said: "Black is taking me on a hike this afternoon. Says he wants to show me some ancient stones. He gave me this." She pulled at the gold chain and medallion Sam had noticed her wearing when he saw her sleeping. "Mr. Falcon offered one just like it to Lana and Linda and Judy."

The medallion of the damned. Of the Devil.

"Stupid Lana refused hers," Susan said. "So did Linda and Judy. I just cannot believe you did that! How rude."

"It's just too expensive a gift, Susan. I … just don't think it's right to take something that expensive."

Susan's eyes glittered as dangerously as a snake before striking. The venomous look faded, and she returned to her breakfast. Eating in silence for a moment, she abruptly left the table without saying another word.

Lana's going to be all right, Nydia fired the thought.

I don't know, Sam disagreed. I don't think so. She's playing some sort of game.

"I think I just lost a friend," Lana said glumly. She was a small, very petite blond, with delicate features, deep blue eyes, and a lush little figure.

"Then she wasn't much of a friend to begin with," Sam told her.

"I … really don't … well, don't take this the wrong way, Nydia," Lana said. "And I don't believe you will, but I am … kind of sorry I came up here."

She's lying! Sam projected.

Nydia ignored the thought. "I know, Lana. I don't like most of my brother's friends, either. And neither does Sam." She started to warn the blond about her mother, the house, but the words would not form on her lips. She struggled to speak the warning but remained mute. She shut her mouth.

You see? Sam silently scolded her.

You can't know for a fact that she is lying!

I know only the words that come into my head.

But I thought your God was a just God? Nydia flung the challenging question.

He is. But He also helps those who help themselves. And He cannot tolerate a liar.

I don't understand, but I will accept what you say.

That's half the battle, honey.

Sam then remembered something, the recollection coming so strongly it hit his mental processes with the impact of a tidal wave: His Bible. He had never unpacked it from his luggage; it had remained in the bag since his arrival at Nelson College. And it was still there, in the bag, in his room … at Falcon House.

An unexpected ally.

"We have an excellent library here," Nydia was telling Lana. "All the latest novels. I'll show you where it is, and maybe you can find something you'd like to read."

"Oh, I'd love that. Could I … maybe dine with you two all the time—if it's okay?"

"Sure," Sam said. That way maybe I can figure out what you're scheming. "Sure, you can eat with us."

She squeezed his hand. "Thanks, Sam. You're the nicest guy I know."

She was gone from the table before Sam could reply.

"Umm!" Nydia said, humor creeping into her eyes. "I have some competition."

"Nah." Sam brushed it off. He leaned close and whispered: "Besides, I like girls with big tits."

The silence that hung over Whitfield was heavy and evil. Like a hot, humid day, it clung to people, enveloping them in a stinking shroud.

Those who thought they had fooled the Almighty as easily as they deceived their friends now found themselves caught in the middle of something they could not understand. They prayed to God, but they had lied in their hearts too many times, and even now, their prayers were insincere. They watched as phone company personnel pulled the plugs to their phones, cutting them off from the outside world. They sensed evil and danger all around them and tried to flee in their cars and trucks. But they could not get out of town. They returned to their homes and waited in fear for the unknown to occur. And they prayed, but the prayers fell on deaf ears.

They called their pastors, but the church pulpits had long ago been filled with those who worship another God. And the preachers laughed at them, some of them making evil deals with the husbands.

"Save you?" the preachers questioned. "All right. Your life for your wife."

"It's a deal," many husbands cried, pushing their wives into the arms of the ungodly.

The wives were taken and raped … among other acts committed against them.

But the husbands found that to bargain with the Devil is a fool's game. And they would learn that very painfully.

In the Lansky house, the golem stirred as invisible life was breathed into it. Wade watched it slowly shuffle across the floor, its ponderous legs and massive arms moving like some primal creature just awakened from a million years of ice-locked sleep. It bumped its head on an archway and stopped, looking almost stupidly around the room, the slits that were its eyes having no expression.

Miles came into the room and took the huge clay man's hand as one might take the hand of a child. "Is it time?" he asked.

The golem nodded, gaining balance and understanding with each second.

"What do I call you? You gotta have a name."

The golem shrugged its solid shoulders.

"I think I'll call you Hershel."

The golem lifted its hands in a gesture of acquiescence as Doris and Anita huddled together against a far wall. Wade sat with a faint smile on his lips.

"That thing really understand what you're saying?" Doris asked.

"I suppose," Miles said. "Sure, it does."

She walked from the corner of the room to look up at the huge clay man. "You can't walk around with no clothes on. You look … indecent."

The golem gazed down at the woman.

"So I made you some pants. You wait where you are." She left the room, returning with a large pair of trousers. "Denim," she said, holding out the jeans. "Difficult material to sew. But I did it."

The golem looked at the offered jeans, then looked at Miles.

Miles wore an exasperated look. "Momma, a golem don't know from pants. What's he gotta have pants for?"

"Because I said he's gotta, that's why. If he's gonna be our shtarker *(strong man)* he's gonna look nice, at least."

The four of them managed to get the jeans on the golem, and, surprisingly, the jeans fit well.

Miles patted the golem on the arm. "Joe E. Lewis, you ain't, Hershel, but you got class."

The golem lumbered out of the room, bumping his head as he went out the door. He sat down on the porch, waiting.

Wade picked up his shotgun, checking the loads. Miles did the same. The four of them sat in the living room. Waiting. Waiting for the evil to begin. Waiting for the horror they knew was coming.

Waiting for the night.

Waiting and praying they had enough faith to get them through it.

"Did you have anything to do with my friends' decision to remain in Whitfield?" Jane Ann asked Balon.

"Their final decision … no. That was something they decided upon a long time ago. Unknowingly. Wade made his decision when he shut down the newspaper. Miles when he sold his store."

"Tony?"

"He lost his faith years ago. Young Sam was only a child. Tony is evil."

"The world is a pretty crappy place, isn't it, Sam?"

"Father Dubois and I discuss that same topic from time to time."

"You make it sound like old home week."

The misty face smiled. "Heaven is not what most mortals envision, I can assure you of that. But I can tell you no more."

"I wish this was over."

"Yes."

"I want to go home."

"You will."

"Is it lovely … there?

"It is different."

"Peaceful?"

"Quite."

"Am I going to suffer before I … go?"

"I cannot lie. Yes."

"Miles and Doris? Wade and Anita? Anita is not very strong."

'They will suffer to a degree."

"But mine will be physical." It was not spoken as a question.

Balon projected no reply. "Your silence tells me I'm right." The mist thrust no mental response.

Jane Ann sighed. "I will endure it."

"Yes," the thought pushed into her brain. "And so must I."

SEVEN

"They're leaving," Roma said to Falcon. "Heading into the east woods." She swore, a venomous string of profanities. "It is difficult for me to believe I have birthed a Christian. It's disgusting! Where did we fail, Falcon?"

He laughed. "We didn't, Roma. Put such thoughts aside. Balon interfered, that's all. His seed must have been strong."

"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."

"Do it? You mean … here? Nydia, I don't have the … uh, authority."

"What authority does it take?"

"Well, I don't know, exactly."

'Then how do you know you don't have it? I mean, you're a baptized Christian, aren't you? Can't a Christian baptize somebody?"

"I … guess so, Nydia. But I'm not about to stick you in that water," he said pointing to the creek. "You'd turn blue!"

"Then put your fingers in the creek and do that other thing."

He grinned at her, the grin fading when he saw she was serious. Feeling very much like a fool, Sam kneeled by the fast-rushing creek and wet his fingers. He touched his fingers to her forehead and said, "Jesus said this, Nydia, and I really hope someone is listening who knows what this is all about. 'All power is given unto me in Heaven and on earth.'

"'Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.'

"Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you: and lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.'"

And Sam knew something all powerful had been guiding his voice, for he had not read that passage since he was a child.

He kissed her lips and said, "I feel kind of like an idiot, Nydia."

"I really hope Jesus didn't add that," she said dryly.

"What do they represent?" Susan asked, her eyes on the circle of stones.

Black moved closer to her, standing just behind the young woman. She could smell the musk of his cologne and it was rich and heady, arousing some heretofore hidden urge deep within her. Black breathed deeply of her perfume and placed his hands on her shoulders.

"It is said that here is where ancient ceremonies were held," he told her. He now stood with his groin pushing against her buttocks, knowing she could feel his slight erection. He pushed against her. She made no effort to move away.

"What kind of ceremonies?" she asked, her voice low.

"The people who worship here, Susan, worship a Master who allows them supreme pleasures in life. Their Master knows that mortals are susceptible beings, and to place too many restrictions upon them is not wise. Are you a Christian, Susan?"

"I was baptized as a child, but I don't attend church."

"Why not?"

"I just got away from it, that's all."

"The talk at school is you're untouchable. That Susan is super-cool. All ice."

"You're touching me, so the talk must be wrong."

"They say you don't smoke grass, don't drink … nothing!"

"Like I said, Black: the talk is wrong." She pushed her buttocks against his heating, swelling groin.

He moved his hands from her shoulders to her slim waist.

She said, "Tell me more about this religion, Black. It sounds very intriguing."

"What would you like to know about it?" His hands were gently caressing her denim-clad hips.

"Oh … like what is your church called? And I assume you belong to it."

"Yes. Many names. Depending on the locale."

"Have I ever been to one of your churches?"

"I doubt it." He buried his face in the lushness of her hair and breathed the scent of her.

"Why all this sudden attention to me, Black? I've seen

you looking at me at dances, but you never asked me out.

"I didn't believe you'd go out with me."

"Why?"

"Because of the talk."

"But I'm here, aren't I?"

'And we're alone."

She turned in his arms and kissed him, running her tongue over his lips, pushing against him, working her hips against his. "Did you bring blankets so we could fuck, Black?"

He laughed, his lips still on hers. "I have to admit I did, Susan."

"All right," she said softly, then added, "Lana and the others are so stupid they don't realize what happened, Black. But my father was a doctor—the research kind. I know when I've been drugged. Besides, I'm a light sleeper; not like I slept last night. You didn't have to do that, Black."

He said nothing.

She pulled away, opening her jacket, then removing it. Black gazed hungrily at the swell of her breasts pushing against her shirt. She lifted the heavy gold medallion. "Seems to be a great many of these, Black."

"But I gave only one—to you."

Her eyes were serious as they gazed into the darkness of his eyes. His were unreadable. "I studied this medallion quite closely this morning. Under a magnifying glass."

"And?"

"It was … unusual. I found myself captivated by the detail."

"But not offended?"

"Oh no."

"Some people are offended by the scene."

And she sealed her fate when she said, "I found myself wishing I was a participant."

"Did you now?"

"Yes."

"You could be."

"Tell me what I would gain."

"If you're one of the lucky ones accepted by our Master—really accepted by him—everlasting beauty and life."

"I'm a virgin, Black. I really am."

"Why? Saving yourself for the right man?"

"Something like that. But I think I've found him."

"It would be an honor for me." A thin line of sweat formed on her upper lip, although the northern air was cool. "I think I like your god, Black. And I'm not a fool: I know what Adam and the others practice."

"Do you now?"

"Yes. Black magic. Voodoo. Devil worship."

"It doesn't frighten you?"

"It fascinates me."

He took her hand and placed it on his swelling crotch. "Does that fascinate you?"

She gently squeezed. "I'd like to see more before I commit myself."

"You know the way."

She nodded and drew back, spreading the blankets away from the circle of stones, on a thick mattress of pine needles. She kneeled down, slowly wriggling out of her jeans. She patted the space beside her.

Naked from the waist down, but with their shirts open, they lay under the blankets beneath the trees. She gripped his penis and worked the foreskin back, the angry red glans glistening.

"It's big," was all she said.

There was no need for foreplay; her juices were wetting the insides of her thighs.

"Think you can get that in your mouth?" Black asked.

"It's real big," she repeated.

"Try."

Without hesitation she bent her head and took him, while his fingers worked at the wetness between her legs. He pulled her mouth from him and positioned himself between her legs, inserting only a small portion of himself inside her.

"More," she groaned.

"First you tell me your God is shit," he said.

She hesitated, then complied, uttering the blasphemy. And the medallion around her neck began to glow.

He slid another inch inside her and said, "Praise the Master of Darkness, Susan."

"Yes," she whispered in passion. "I do praise Him."

He moved between her legs and she screamed in pleasure and pain. Black said, "If this feels so good, Susan, why then does your God deny this pleasure to his subjects, whenever they choose to partake of it?"

"I don't know!" she wailed, struggled to get more of him inside her.

"Because your God is shit!"

"Yes. My God is shit!"

At his urgings, blasphemous words rolled from her mouth, leaking like filth from a broken sewage line.

And God must have frowned as the Devil laughed when Black shoved his manhood into the laughing, screaming, corruption-spouting young woman. His newest convert. By the circle of stones. Not too far from a reaking hole in the ground.

"Susan screaming," Nydia said, her lips tight as the wails of pleasure drifted through the timber.

"But not in pain," Sam observed.

"No, I guess not. My brother is … amply endowed. Like you," she said, glancing at him.

"My father must have been hung like a bull."

She laughed. "What a marvelously elegant expression.

"Shall we hike through the timber and see what's happening?" Sam suggested with a grin.

"What is this, another side to you? The voyeur?"

"I just want to see if Dad gave him the same equipment."

"You're awful. You and Black are … about the same, in that department."

"How would you know?"

"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.

Sam kneeled down, studying closely the stones of the huge circle; he studied with great interest the largest stone, which depicted scenes of great depravity: of men with huge jutting phalluses; of women with their legs spread wide, exposing the genitalia; scenes of mass orgies: men with men, women with women, men with small children; scenes of hideous torture; of grotesque creatures, monsters, leaping and snarling. And finally, on the east side of the boulder, a scene depicting a saintly looking man who was locked in some sort of combat with a beastly appearing creature.

Sam looked up from his studying. "You didn't tell me about this."

Her face was pale. "That was … never there before, Sam. I mean, the rocks, yes, but not all those carvings."

"Nydia …" he let his statement drift away. "No … I imagine the carvings were always here; you just couldn't see them. They are probably exposed only when Satan wants them to be." And how do you know all that? he silently questioned his mind.

"Or when he is near," she said tightly.

"Yes." Sam rose from his squat position and put his arms around her. She was trembling.

"I'm scared, Sam. For the first time, I'm really frightened. Now I know what you meant when you said you didn't know what to do—where to start."

Sam comforted her as best he could, for he, too, was frightened. "Come on. Let's see this hole in the ground."

They smelled the stench long before they came to the hole, both their noses wrinkling at the foul odor. "Can you imagine what it's like deep in that hole?" Sam tried a grin, unaware that his father had said almost the same thing to a couple of friends back in '58, standing near The Digging.

"Gross!" Nydia said. She watched as Sam reached into his jacket pocket. His face paled. He jerked his hand from the pocket as if he had touched a snake.

"What's wrong, Sam?"

His face regained a bit of color after his initial shock. "That . . . that's not my pistol in there."

"What!"

"I … thought just a moment ago, when I was kneeling down by that boulder there was too much weight in my pocket. But I shrugged it off. That's not a .38 revolver. That's an … automatic."

"Let's see, Sam."

He looked at her for a long moment and then put his hand into his jacket pocket. With his hand still in his pocket, he said, "Oh, my God!"

"Sam!"

He pulled out his hand, the hand containing three fully loaded clips for a .45 automatic pistol.

"What kind of gun did your father carry … back in Whitfield?"

"I don't know."

"Take out the pistol, Sam."

The young man hesitantly put his hand back into his pocket, gingerly pulling out the big automatic. He checked it. A full clip in the butt. He turned the weapon and saw a brass nameplate embedded and riveted into the handle. SGT SAM BALON KOREA 1953

"It's … it belonged to my father," he choked out the words, holding the weapon out for Nydia to see the brass plate in the grip.

She put a hand to her mouth, her face pale with shock.

"Something else just popped into my head," Sam said. "Wade Thomas told me one time my father sure could use a Thompson submachine gun. My mother gave him a look that would have fried eggs."

"What's a Thompson submachine gun?"

"An old-type tommy gun. Like the gangsters used to use.

"Are they any good?"

Sam smiled. "Up to about a hundred yards. If a Thompson won't stop what's coming at you, honey, with those big old slugs, it just isn't going to be stopped. I would love to have one of them."

"Have you ever fired one?"

"No, but it wouldn't take me long to learn." He looked at the pistol again. Somehow, and he could not shake the feeling, the weapon felt natural in his hand, almost as if he had held it before.

"What are you thinking, Sam?" Although she knew his thoughts.

He told her.

"Maybe that's what your father wants you to feel?"

"Yeah," he said softly.

A sudden sensation of being pulled into a dark force field enveloped them. "Sam!" Nydia cried, taking his hand. "What's happening?"

"Hang on! I don't know."

They sank to the ground. And they were speechless, immobile as the strange force took control.

Time took them mentally winging into darkness, spinning them wildly through multicolors. They watched a naked man fighting with a naked woman. The faces were blurred, but both Sam and Nydia knew who they were: Sam Balon and Roma.

Articles of clothing and pieces of equipment flew about the struggling couple, sailing in a slow circle. The man struck the woman with his fist, and her head snapped back, blood spurting from a suddenly crimson mouth. She slapped him, the force of the open-hand pop turning him in somersaults. He kicked out with a bare foot and she grabbed his ankle, her hand working upward to grasp his erect penis. She hunched and impaled herself on the phallus, howling with dark laughter.

He smashed a fist against her jaw and she slumped, the man pushing her from his penis. She flew at him, fighting him. He was growing weaker. Again and again she mounted his maleness, only to have him shove her away, each shove less forceful than the preceding one.

Then, shrieking her taunting laughter, she lunged at him and wailed her delight as the phallus drove to the inner depths of her. For what seemed like hours the couple fucked their way across trackless worlds of time, always in a slow circle, until their combined juices were leaking from her lathered cunt, leaving a trail as bright as the Milky Way.

The young couple, frozen in voyeurism, earth-locked, could see the man was nearly dead.

With one last supreme burst of courage and strength, the man threw out his arm, snagging something out of the maze of clothing and equipment that encircled the couple. The objects seemed to fire from his hand, through the years, straight toward the young man and woman sitting on the ground in Canada.

Nydia screamed.

Sam ducked.

They both jumped to their feet, looking around them. All was still and peaceful. Sam looked at the gun in his hand.

"He threw the gun at you," Nydia whispered. "And something else. But . . . how?"

"I think when we finally learn that, Nydia … we'll be dead."

"You know now what you have to do at Falcon House, don't you?" she asked him.

"I think I've known all along."

"It's Miles," Jane Ann said. "He wants to know how come the phones are still working when everybody else's don't?"

"They don't work in Whitfield," Balon replied.

"He says then maybe you would be so kind as to explain how it is he is talking with me on the telephone this very minute?"

"Tell him to think about it. The answer will come to him."

She relayed the message, then stood listening for a few seconds. She laughed. "He says he understands. He really doesn't, he said. But to please you, he says he does."

"Hang up the phone and come over here and sit on the couch," Balon said.

When she was seated in front of the only man she had ever loved, she smiled at the misty face and said, "All right, Sam."

"I will be able to protect you through most of what will occur during the coming days. But … in the end it will have to be your strength and courage that see you through."

"Can you tell me why?"

"Not yet. Most of it you will be able to guess. After … all is done, then you will know."

She smiled. "I love question and answer games."

"None of this is amusing, Jane Ann!" Balon fired the thought at her with such intensity it caused her head to ache. "Sorry," he said. "But enough is enough. Miles is treating this as some sort of comedy burlesque; Wade is his usual smart-ass reporter self."

"Sam! Angels aren't supposed to talk like that."

"I'm not an angel. Even if I were, it wouldn't make any difference. Michael has been known to loose some oaths that caused tidal waves."

"Do you two get along? You and Michael?"

Silence greeted her.

"Sorry," she muttered. "Conversing with the spirit world is not something I do every day, you know."

"There you go again, being flip. I can't seem to get through to you—any of you—the horror that is beginning … for all of you."

"Don't you think we know, Sam? We lived through it once."

"But none of you will live through this. None of you. And your death, Jane Ann, is not going to be pleasant."

"I realize that, Sam. Last night I prayed for help."

"I heard you."

"Did He?"

"I am sure He did."

"You don't know!"

Silence.

"All right. Knowing Jean Zagone, I'm sure whatever is in store for me will be of a sexual nature."

The mist projected no reply.

"Rape, I'm sure."

Silence.

"Am I to be served up for the Black Mass?"

The mist gave no clue. Balon's unblinking eyes could not be read.

And then she knew what was in store for her; the culmination of the awfulness preceding the final hours of hideousness. She put her hands over her face and wept.

Balon could do nothing except silently watch, and invisibly weep with her.

A gentle rain began to fall over Whitfield.

Sam jacked a round into the automatic, eased the hammer down, and shoved it behind his belt. He glanced at Nydia. "Let's go see this hole in the ground. See the Beasts."

She grabbed his arm. "Why did you say Beasts?"

"Because I know, now, that's what they are. I don't know how I know. But they are the Devil's Beasts. My dad fought them—or some like them—in Fork. And now I know for certain I have been tapped—chosen, if you will—to pick up where Dad left off. Just another part of the country, that's all."

"And Roma, Falcon, Black … all those at the house?" she asked, almost running to keep pace with his long stride.

"I have to kill them," Sam said.

"Or try," she was forced to add.

"Yes."

"You won't run?"

"No."

Then they were at the hole in the earth, the ungodly fumes pouring from the blackness hundreds of feet deep almost making them physically ill.

"Bastards," Sam said, his voice low and powerful. "I know you're in there."

A growl ripped from the darkness and the stench to touch them.

Sam tossed his jacket to the ground, opening his shirt, exposing the angry red cross burned into his skin. The growling intensified, becoming louder as others joined in, swelling the howling and snarling to a fever pitch.

Sam pulled the .45 from his belt. "Why don't you come out?" he challenged them. "Let the light touch you?"

But nothing appeared at the mouth of the stinking lair of the Beasts. Only more howling and snarling sprang from the filthy cave.

Sam ignored the tugging at his sleeve. Nydia was so frightened she was trembling.

"Come up," Sam said. "Let me see you. Show me your evil red eyes." How did I know their eyes were red?

And one Beast did just that. A young Beast who lacked the caution of age leaped forward, just a few feet from the cave opening. It roared at the tall young man, its breath stinking. Sam shot it between the eyes, then stood smiling as the dead creature tumbled backward, falling with a boneless thud onto the first level of the many-tiered burrow. It would not be wasted: its relatives would feast on the cooling flesh and still-warm blood, sucking the marrow from the bones.

"One less," Sam said, then spat contemptuously on the ground, unaware his father had done and said the same thing years before, 1,500 miles to the west.

This time Sam allowed Nydia to pull him away from the rancid hole, leading him toward the house.

After the young couple had gone, a huge old Beast stuck his head out of the den. He had been on this earth for many years, hundreds of years, and had lived through purge after purge from both humans and the elements. He was old and he was wise, as Beasts go. He shook his great scarred head and snarled deep in his chest. He had never known a human without fear of his kind.

Until now.

And that primal sense of warning struck a resonant cord within his tiny brain. The Beast did not know he was evil; his brain could not distinguish between good and evil. He served his god because … well, it was the thing to do. He did not have the intelligence to question right or wrong. But he did understand courage … and something else: fear. And what he now felt was fear, and he did not understand why.

Growling, the Beast slipped back into the earth. He must warn the others of this human; tell them to stay away. For this human was not like the other humans. This human had been touched by the Other Side. And the Beast feared the Other Side.

Black and Susan spun around as the echo of the shot drifted through the timber.

"That was close," Susan said.

But Black would only smile.

In Falcon House, Roma studied Falcon as the man stood speaking with Lana. He could be so charming. She wondered how long it would take him to get the panties off the little blond? Not long, if she knew Falcon, and she did. She would like to be there when he spread her legs and filled her with that enormous erection. Roma liked to hear screaming.

A thin line of perspiration broke from the skin on her upper lip at just the thought of sex. Damn that young man! She couldn't get him out of her mind. Roma knew, with a mother's sixth sense, that Nydia had slept with Balon's bastard … which was fine … no harm in that. But what Roma did not want was some puky little holy child to spring from the mating. That would be the height of humiliation.

A door slammed, and Roma looked around as Black and Susan strolled in. The girl looked rumpled. So her son had made it with the cunt. That was good. Better than his usual tastes: boys. Although the Master did not object to his subjects engaging in sex with the same gender. Roma noticed Susan now wore the medallion of the Master outside her shirt. Very good, Black. Falcon will want to sample her wares as well. How nice of you to break in a new pussy for him. She watched Susan touch her son's arm, smile up at him, then walk toward the steps to her quarters. Black came to his mother's side.

"All went well, I see."

"Very well. Mother. But we did hear a shot a few moments ago."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Seemed to come from around the circle."

"Of course, Sam would be armed. He is his father's son. Any ideas as to what prompted the gunfire?"

"He probably fired at a Beast."

'They would not have attacked with Nydia present." A frown creased her brow. "Unless …" she let the unimaginable trail off.

"Unless … what, Mother?"

"She became a Christian," Roma said sourly.

"If she did that, then that changes things considerably."

"Yes. But Sam Balon used to do the same thing back in Whitfield. Taunt the Beasts. No fear in either father or son." But still … could her daughter have been converted so quickly. It was possible. If so, Roma smiled, that opened up yet another can of wriggling worms, with more alternatives than ever.

Black looked at his mother. But unlike his mother, the young man was very familiar with fear. But he dared not tell her of that forbidden emotion, as forbidden as true love. She would be furious. Black had learned as a child how to keep his thoughts blocked from her.

But Roma picked up disturbing vibes from her son. "What's wrong, Black?"

Dark eyes met, held, with Black breaking off his gaze under her hard look. He shook his head. "Nothing, Mother." He hoped he sounded convincing enough.

He didn't. But Roma said nothing about it. "Black, we have but one mission here on earth, and nothing must stand in its way. Nothing. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, Mother."

Scheming little bastard, Roma thought. Now you've added lying. "Our Master wants more converts, more churches. It is a very daring move they are taking in Whitfield, so soon after failure. If all succeeds, it will mean an entire town—everyone—worshiping the Prince of Darkness. That hasn't happened here on earth in more years than even I can recall. Nothing must stand in our way.

"Yes, Mother. But why simultaneously? Why here and in Whitfield concurrently?"

"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."

"A joke," Lana whispered. She appeared to be relieved. "Just a joke."

Falcon chuckled and put his arms around her, gently pulling her to him. She rather liked the feel and the strength of the older man. Everything was going to plan. She pressed her face against the soft cloth of his smoking jacket, savoring the scent of his cologne. She had never smelled anything quite like it. It had just a touch of burning pine to it, mingled with a very pleasant scent of musk … and something else she could not define.

Falcon was equally enjoying the feel of the lush young lady against him. The feel of firm young breasts; the slight heat from her loins. Through centuries of practice, he kept his penis soft. "Oh, yes, dear. Just a joke. Oh, we'll have a fine time, you and I. It will be our little secret, right up to the culmination."

She looked up. "The culmination?"

"The height of it all, dear," he smiled, his dark eyes glowing with a hidden fire, "when we achieve the final summit."

"Of course," Lana breathed, her breath sweet.

"Naturellement," Falcon said. There was something very disturbing about this young lady.

After Lana had chosen a few books and left the room, Roma appeared in the center of the study, a slight odor of burning coals with her. "Well, Falcon, it seems you have assured yourself a place between her lovely legs. But what of the others?"

"All in due time, Roma. We have the time. But we must be careful not to depasser les bornes."

"I know the boundaries, Falcon. You just worry about your own perversions with pretty young things, bon?"

"Oui. I have missed you for several hours. Where have you been?"

"Speaking with someone not of this world, Falcon."

They both smiled, and the odor of burning sulfur seemed to grow stronger.

NINE

By midafternoon, the storm had struck, sending all its fury across the land: walls of rain hurled against the great house, the wind bending the trees in a grotesque dance of the elements, the silver liquid bullets of the Heavens hammered against the house. The storm intensified as Roma picked up a huge black book and began reading.

No mortal could have held the book's weight; no ten mortals could have held it, for the black-bound book contained the names of every human being who had ever been converted to the godless teachings of Satan. Every name, from the beginnings of time.

Roma hummed quietly as she flipped through the thousands of pages, the print so fine it would have taken a magnifying glass for a mortal to see anything other than a blur. She hummed a Faustian melody as she sought the page of her choice. It was not easy to find, for its words had rarely been investigated by those before Roma … those keepers of The Book. And it had been used even less. Then she ceased her humming as a smile creased her lips, the page and the evil words leaping at her eyes. Roma devoured the message, memorizing each ritual, each item needed. She closed the book as a satisfying sigh escaped her lips.

Falcon appeared in the center of the room, his face dark with fury … and concern for the witch. "I cannot believe you are really contemplating this!"

"It need not concern you." Her reply was cold. "Your participation is minimal."

"Everything you do concerns me."

"Only to the point it gains some end for you."

"I'll not allow that remark to offend me, Roma. My dear, don't you realize this could well be your gotterdammerung?"

She shook her head. "Nothing quite that dramatic, I assure you. That is still in the future. But if you mean my death, yes, I know that."

"And still you persist?"

"For our Master, yes."

"I will try to be there at … the end. To help in whatever manner I can."

"No. That cannot be. You have never read the instructions?"

He shrugged. "Why should I? Birthing a demon is not the forte of a warlock."

"Only those women who are as we can be present. But you can help in the preparation."

"Tell me what I must do."

"I need the blood of a nonbeliever. That is where we must start."

Falcon sighed, walking to her, taking her hand. "I am really quite fond of you, Roma."

She jerked her hand from his. "Don't become maudlin. You know the only love we may experience is that which we feel for the Master."

"Yes. But I see now why you are doing this thing."

She looked up at him.

"You fell in love with Balon, didn't you?"

Her steady gaze did not waver.

"You don't have to go to this extreme in penitence, Roma. It wasn't that terrible a deed."

"It isn't atonement, Falcon. Put that out of your mind. I merely wish to leave a legacy—some part of me."

"Say it all, Roma," he urged her. "Share it with me—our feelings."

She shook her head. "No. That is past."

"That's not what I mean."

And the thoughts of the witch and the warlock were mingled: what if they failed here at Falcon House? What if all the plans of the Master came to naught? What then?

"I must say it," Falcon said. "You believe there is a chance we will fail?"

"Balon's love child has powers even he doesn't know about—yet. The young man might never have to bring them into play. Yes, he could beat us. So any demon child we produce is simply insurance against the future. I have the Master's permission to do this, so it is settled. And you will have to play a part with Nydia."

"We don't know she is Christian."

"I believe she is."

The witch and the warlock looked at each other for several seconds. Falcon then nodded his head. "I will do my part."

"Always remembering that right up to the last moment, we must attempt to convert them."

"Yes."

"But we may as well gather what we can—just in case. I need blood. The nonbeliever must not die, for we will have to return again and again." Their thoughts were shared. "Yes," Roma said. "She will do." She touched her neck. "Tonight, Falcon. Do it."

He vanished.

Everlasting life; eternal youth; beauty for the women, never-failing virility for the men; an orgy that would span time; an end to the mundane worries that plague mortals. That is what the Lord of Darkness had promised the Coven members of Whitfield in return for their pledge of service to him. For a nether world here on God's earth. Just one spot that would truly be the kingdom of the damned; of the Cloven hoof. Then, as time trudged on, the disciples of Mephistopheles could spread slowly outward, carrying the message born in the smoking pits to others, until the Prince of Filth ruled a county, a state, a country, or a world.

All was ready. The churches of Whitfield no longer held any trace of the Lord God: the crosses were hanging upside down; the altars were draped in black; the instruments of Holy Communion were filled with the vilest of liquids ... all was in ready to receive the Prince of Darkness.

The word was received: Let it begin.

Falcon slipped down the quiet hall of the great house, pausing often to listen. But any slight sound he might have made was muted by the clashing of the storm as it battered the land. At a bedroom door, he stood for a time, a smile playing across his lips. He tried the door knob. Unlocked. He eased the door open and let his eyes play across the form of the girl sprawled in deep sleep on the bed.

Judy was a true Christian, Black had said, loyal to her God and His teachings.

She won't be for long, Falcon smiled, the lips pulling back in a grisly leer, exposing the true direction of his long, bloody life. Fangs now marred the perfection of his ivory smile; his tongue was swollen, crimson as it throbbed with anticipation, mentally savoring the hot burst of living blood.

Falcon slipped into the room, quietly closing the door behind him, the noise of the heavy storm covering his soft footsteps. Standing over the bed, he began a low incantation, his deep voice soothing the young woman, edging her deeper into sleep, the slumber becoming a state of deep hypnosis as his voice touched her dulling senses. Falcon pushed her through the stages of induced sleep, until finally she was secure in the deep somnambulistic state of controlled sleep … and then past that into sleep controlled by the Master of the Black Arts, Ruler of the Netherworld.

Falcon gently slipped the thin cover from her body, licking his lips at the sight of her young beauty, his blood-red tongue bumping over the fangs on either side of his mouth, the points of the fangs arousing the engorged organ.

Judy was a dark-haired young beauty, the dark brown hair spilling over the whiteness of the pillow, shining with cleanliness and health. Falcon touched the silkiness of youth, entwining his fingers in the strands, loving the feel of her. For a moment he sat on the edge of the bed, a dozen emotions playing within his head. He recalled through the years that he had once done the same in Spain, centuries ago, with a lovely young lady who had a calling to be a nun. She had slept in a magnificent villa on the coast while Falcon had toyed with her, finally taking her. He smiled at the recall.

Judy lay on her side, clad only in the scantiest of bra and pantie. The young ladies now, Falcon noted, no matter how pristine they pretend to be, do enjoy the loveliest of undergarments. He touched the softness of inner thigh, and the young woman stirred at his finger touch, sighing above the noise of the raging storm, stirring in her sleep. Falcon whispered a soothing phrase and she turned onto her back, her legs parting. He flipped the front clasp to her lacy bra, and young breasts sprang free, firm and rose-tipped, the nipples slightly erect from the rush of cool air.

"Lovely," Falcon breathed.

He bent his head and allowed his swollen tongue to touch one nipple, working at the tautness. She moved under the tongue play, her small hands clenching into fists at her side. He moved his mouth downward, between the young breasts, licking down her stomach, to the slight mound of her lower belly. He rolled the brief pantie from her, past the edge of pubic hair, uncovering the sweetness of her mons veneris. Bending his head, Falcon tasted the freshness of youth, his swelling, protruding tongue dipping into the sudden moisture of her.

He pulled away before his sensuality became too great to be controlled and he would have been forced to mount the sleeping beauty. That would have to wait. But it would be. Again, a smile played a macabre dance on his lips. Perhaps, soon, he could mount her as he sipped her life's blood, both of them climaxing just as life left her, just at that moment when her heart convulsed and died. That was one of Falcon's greatest thrills, and it occurred only too rarely.

Falcon put his hand on her soft belly, allowing his fingers to slide downward, to gently caress the mound of Venus, one finger softly parting and entering the folds of her. She moaned under the digital intrusion, and Falcon placed his mouth to hers, her breath hot and sweet as she experienced a burst of lascivious pleasure, her juices wetting her thighs. In her deep mesmeric slumber, she began to move on the bed in approaching climax, Falcon's finger encountering no resistance of maidenhead as it plunged deeper into the satin heat of female.

He sensed she was very close to climax as her knees came up and her soft thighs closed, entrapping his hand and pleasuring finger, his thumb on her clitoris, rubbing the hard erectile of the vulva, swollen now in sexual enjoyment.

Just as Judy began to shiver in the throes of first climax, Falcon dipped his mouth to her neck and worked his fangs into the carotid artery just behind her ear. For a moment he greedily sucked at the flow of warm blood from her thrashing body. The liquid, thick and rich, filled his mouth and dribbled down his thirsty throat, the warm, slightly salty taste enriching him, flooding him with vitality. He removed a vial from his pocket and held it against Judy's neck, beneath his teeth, filing the small bottle with blood. She gasped as climax lunged through her, then sighed as the warm aftermath filled her with lingering contentment.

Falcon eased his fangs from her neck, licking away the last drops of crimson from the closing puncture wounds. He removed his finger from her and dressed her as he had found her, covering her with the sheet. The storm raged on.

"Sleep well, my dear," Falcon said. "For you are now one of us. Whether you will remain as such, only time will tell. But I shall be back."

He returned to Roma, to give her the first of many ingredients, and to satisfy the aching in his loins. The storm beat on as the witch and the warlock coupled, Roma screaming out a mixture of pain and pleasure as she was impaled on Falcon's huge erection.

And while Sam and Nydia slept in each other's arms, content if not safe, and Judy slowly drifted out of her hypnotic state, dreaming of being tired, Adam kneeled in front of Lane's nakedness and took pleasure in homosexual love. Lana slept soundly, a slight smile on her lips. Linda dreamed of eternal youth and beauty, a dream she often materialized in sleep. Chad and Burt and Lester took their pleasures with Sandy and Vicky and Carol and Madge and Anne: a daisy chain of debauchery as the storm raged. Black caressed the nakedness of Susan prior to mounting her, her cries of pain-pleasure filling the room as Black's manhood filled her.

And in the caves beneath the land, behind the great house, the Beasts waited. The storm did not disturb them: they had seen many storms, and they knew they had nothing to fear from the elements. It was what walked above them, that human the old one had told them about they must be wary of.

Jimmy Perkins sat in a chair in his living quarters above the garage and slowly masturbated, his thoughts of Nydia. He fantasized of having sex with her; all sorts of sex, from the norm to the bizarre. He spilled his semen on the floor and leaned back in the chair. He felt better, but it was not enough … self-abuse never is. The time was growing near, and Jimmy wanted real sex and warm blood.

Nydia's blood.

He rose from the chair, zipping up his pants, letting himself out of the room. He slipped through the dark afternoon. Perhaps he could not have the daughter of the witch this day, but there was always one of the others. And if he could not have one of the young women, there was always one of the young men. Falcon had promised him—in a manner of speaking—he could take one of the young men.

"Any hole in a storm," Jimmy chuckled, proud of himself for his burst of human humor.

But five seconds later he could not remember why he had been chuckling.

Jane Ann looked across the street at the Cleveland house. The family had gathered on the front yard, staring at her house. The five of them stood in silence, staring. She turned to look at the mist of Balon.

"Why are they waiting?"

"For instruction," Balon projected.

"From Satan?"

"Yes."

"The others will be all right, Sam? Those at Miles's house?"

"Yes. The golem will protect them. But they will have to help. And they will."

"The golem can't be destroyed?"

"Not by a mortal. Not this one."

"Only by God?"

"Yes."

"How is that possible?"

"The golem is earth. He is air. He is water. God made all those things. How is it possible to destroy something that God made without His permission?"

"We seem to be doing quite well with pollution and nuclear proliferation."

"The answer is contained within your statement."

"I … see."

"No, you don't. But you will."

"I'll have to be very strong, won't I?"

"Stronger than you have ever been before. The Prince of Filth will test your faith. He will tell you he will stop the pain, the degradation, the humiliation … if only you will renounce your faith in God. And he will not be lying."

"It will be terribly painful, won't it, Sam?"

"I cannot lie. Yes." ,

"But others have endured it."

"Yes. And so shall you."

Jane Ann folded her arms under her breasts and turned her attentions to the street. A crowd had gathered, with the Cleveland family leading the rabble. "They're coming."

"Yes."

"What must I do?"

"Let them attempt to take you."

"And then?"

"They will discover the awesome power of the Almighty."

"Through you?"

"Yes."

"He could stop all this, couldn't He?"

"With one gesture of His hand."

"Then why doesn't He?"

"Humankind must find their own way, Janey. He gave them a brain, the power to think, to reason. And He gave them compassion, if they will but use it. He gave them everything … all things to create a world of good. It is up to humankind to decide which path they will take."

"Hey, bitch!" the harsh voice rang from the yard. "I got about nine inches of cock I'd like to shove up your ass just to listen to you holler."

Jane Ann looked for the mist of Balon. But the mist was gone. She almost went into a panic. Then she saw the tentacles of vapor hovering over the Bible. The mist seemed to be drawing strength from the Word of God.

"Hey, Janey!" Tony's voice rang out. "How about comin' out here and givin' some of that good pussy to my buddies?"

"How can one man change so?" Jane Ann muttered.

"Very easily," Balon projected. "The Dark One offers much to those who are less to begin with."

"A caste system in Heaven? Really, Sam!"

"Step out on the porch, Janey," Balon told her. "Let them see you are not afraid."

"But I am afraid."

"You are afraid of what awaits you at the end, not of what confronts you now."

Jane Ann opened the door and stepped onto the porch. She looked at Steve Cleveland. "What do you want, Steve?"

"Some of your pussy, baby," he said, and stepped forward, reaching for her arm.

Steve recoiled backward, his face on fire, the bubbling and popping of burning flesh filling the late afternoon air. He began screaming, running from the house, dashing into the road, where he tripped on the curb and fell into the gutter, to lay screaming out his life as the fire intensified, his head engulfed in flames.

"You like the fire of your Master?" Balon's heavy voice cut through the afternoon. "Then enjoy it. Here … let me introduce you to God's power."

A woman erupted in flames, her body seeming to explode. A man standing beside her suddenly found his feet on fire, the flames spreading upward, engulfing him. The man and woman ran blindly down the sidewalk, howling in pain. They fell heavily, beating their feet on the concrete as they felt the pain of their brains cooking. Their wails soon diminished into low moans as life began to leave them. Steve Cleveland had already passed into the misty veil, slipping through, the wind sighing as he met his Dark Master's world.

"Whores and bastards!" Balon's voice sent waves of fear through the panicked crowd. "Leave. Get out! Your time for her will come soon enough . . . but not now. Get out!"

They needed no further urgings. They ran in all directions, Tony leading the pack. The Devil's spokeswoman, Jean, had not told them anything like this would happen. They ran to her.

And The Tempter watched all that was happening, watched it glumly. He simply could not believe his enemy had bestowed so much power in Balon. That was not at all like Him. Surely He did not believe that simpering whore, Jane Ann, was worth all this? Unless … the Dark One pondered, unless … He knew she would meet the challenge at the end. No! the Ruler of the Netherworld rejected that. No! Not even He would go so far. Or would He?

He shifted his never-closing eyes to the house of the Jew and Jewess. If that damnable lump of clay was with life … with breath from that … meddler in the sky … that would be an insult just too great for him to tolerate.

Satan saw half of what was once a human member of his Coven go flying through the air, the torso leaking blood and intestines and organs. The golem stood like a massive fortress in the center of the yard: a sentry against the forces of evil. The golem held one of Satan's people in one huge hand. Then, with no more effort than was required to open an envelope, the golem ripped off both arms and sent them flying across the street, where they smashed through a picture window.

The armless body screamed and flopped on the sidewalk, thick crimson gushing from empty arm sockets. He lay squalling in helpless agony.

Satan's forces scattered in fear and blind panic. The golem lumbered slowly up the walkway and sat down on the porch. A giant gray man, without features, without emotion. Here only to serve God's people.

"You son of a cosmic whore!" Satan screamed his message to the firmament. "We made a deal after Prague."

"I make no deals with you, Lord of All That Is Ugly." The silent voice filled the sky, heard only by the demon of all demons.

"Why here?" Satan howled his outrage. "Why for these five people? Why not in Israel?"

"The people of Israel can take care of themselves—as the world is rapidly discovering. And how do you know I haven't helped there?"

But Satan was in no mood for questions and answers. "All bets are off, you son of a bitch! We agreed twenty years ago, over this very spot, that I would leave Balon's bastards to their own wiles; in return, you would leave me this miserable village. You lied!"

"I do not recall any such agreement."

And while Satan howled and screamed his outrage at this supposed trickery on the part of God, the Almighty brooded among the thousands of worlds under His command.

Had He placed too much on the young man from Balon's seed? Was the young man mature enough to victoriously fight the odds against him? He had given the young man powers far beyond any He had given any other in many years … or rather, He smiled … Balon had.

The Heavens winked at the smile.

All right, He had done all He could do. Far more than He ordinarily did. It was time to withdraw. To think. Because there was the matter of His mighty ageless warrior, who was becoming restless, anticipating a fight between good and evil on earth, and wanting very much to be a part in any upcoming confrontation.

There was that to think about.

"The black mass that starts the ordeal will begin tonight," Sam said, startling Nydia. "Both here and in Whitfield."

She stirred in his arms. "How do you know that?"

"I just know," Sam replied in a whisper.

They lay on the bed in Sam's room, listening to the howl and rage of the storm as it slammed the mansion. They were fully clothed, and had not made love that day. The impact of the knowledge that they were half brother and sister had finally hit home, sobering them, and, to some extent, frightening them.

"Your father told you?" she asked.

Sam's reply was a long time coming. When he did speak, his voice was hushed. "One of them."

TEN

Jimmy slipped through the huge house, knowing he was deluding no one of his kind, and knowing that, in all probability, he would be stopped before he could culminate his mission. But he had to try, for the urges rearing up in him had grown too powerful to suppress and too wild to placate with his hand and thoughts. He knew he was not as intelligent as he had once been, back when he was a policeman in Whitfield, so many years ago.

And as quickly as the thought came to him, it was removed from his mind, leaving the near zombie standing dumbly in the dim hallway, wondering what he had been thinking.

Jimmy heard a door open and ducked behind drapes in the hall. Peeking through the crack in the heavy drapes, he watched Balon's bastard son walk down the hall, past him, and into the stairwell leading downward. He listened to the footfall until they faded.

Quickly, Jimmy shuffled to Nydia's door. He stood listening for a moment, hearing the young beauty humming a soft tune. His erection was throbbing, his groin aching, his tongue swollen as he placed his hand on the doorknob and gently turned the brass.

Nydia was naked, all her beauty exposed to Jimmy's hot eyes: the full, mature breasts, rose-tipped; the heavy bush between her legs. He could not see her face for it was turned from him.

Jimmy pushed the door open a bit farther, ready to step inside and take her, by force if necessary, when a hand fell on his shoulder, hauling him bodily out of the door, the door closing soundlessly behind him, the loveliness cut off from view.

Jimmy turned to look into the fathomless eyes of Falcon. "Not her," the tall man whispered. "Never her, Jimmy. Not unless you wish to die ten thousand agonizing deaths a year for all eternity."

Jimmy dared to argue, so great was his need. "She is one of His now—what difference does it make?"

"Fool!" Falcon hissed at him, leading the man from the door, down the hall. "Your Master has other plans for her, and they do not include you. Now leave this wing immediately, and do not return—ever—without orders from Roma or me. Go!"

He watched as Jimmy shuffled off, his shoulders slumped in rejection. The man was becoming more and more a buffoon, his usefulness almost past. Falcon could not understand why Roma kept him alive. And then Falcon chuckled without mirth. Of course: he was the last reminder of her love for Balon. How typically female.

His eyes narrowed as the thought of the girl behind the closed door entered his mind. Falcon could understand Jimmy's desire, for Nydia was of astonishing beauty and very much worthy of any man's attention. Even Falcon had entertained thoughts of entering her; fantasizing of her moaning beneath him as he gave her more cock than mere mortals could ever possess.

And now he had that permission to do just that. But only when Roma gave the word. His smile became a thing of ugliness as he thought of the girl's satin-smooth flesh, all hot beneath him.

He abruptly turned away, slipping quietly down the hall then up the stairs to his rooms. There he began to dress for the mass that evening. Once the mass was under way, and the true Master was called, no one would be allowed to leave this area, and only those who practiced the Black Arts could enter. Falcon House and the area surrounding it would be as unattainable as a lost planet in a black hole of space.

And then, Falcon smiled, hefting his penis, the party could really begin.

"We have no virgin for the ceremony," Roma said as she prepared to dress for the mass.

"Lana," Falcon corrected. "She has never been penetrated."

"I … am hesitant to use her," Roma said, slipping out of her gown, standing naked in the room. "There is … something about her that disturbs me."

"Yes," Falcon agreed. "I picked up on the same troublesome vibes. Pity. She is very pretty." Falcon thought no more of it as he became aware of a heating in his groin and a slight stirring of the massive organ that hung between his legs. Like Roma, he, too, was naked, very carefully choosing his robes for the ceremony.

"We can't use Judy," Roma mused, as much to herself as to Falcon. "She is now one of us. And I will need more blood from her."

"The pretty little Linda, then?"

"I … think not," Roma replied, glancing at the clock on the dresser. Their eyes met in reflection from the mirror. The mouths smiled. "She thinks she is fooling us, you know?"

"Yes," Falcon agreed with a smile. "But we know what she is."

"We'll let her play her little game."

Falcon looked at the witch, thinking how beautiful she still was … and how desirable. He stroked his penis, feeling it fill with hot blood under his touch.

Roma laughed at him. "Contain yourself, Falcon. Sometimes I believe your brains are located in your cock."

"I believe Wilder once said your brains were situated between your legs, Roma—did he not?"

She sat down naked at her dresser and began to brush her raven hair. Falcon walked up behind her to cup her full breasts, gently pinching the nipples, feeling them grow beneath his touch. She turned, kissing his penis.

"Wilder made a mistake," she said.

"Yes. Yes, I believe he did."

"We will defile one of the boys." Roma made her decision. "They have all had dinner and should be drugged by now."

Falcon frowned his distaste. "How droll, Roma. You know how I dislike pederastic sacrifices."

"Black rather enjoys them," she reminded him. "As you noted earlier."

"Yes, and I say again: Black is weak, and even for our standards, not quite normal."

Her face expressed her concern. "So the Master reminded me. Failure, failure," she shook her head. "I will not fail this time."

Falcon bent his head to kiss her, recoiling only slightly as he observed that her teeth were suddenly fanged. Their tongues touched gingerly, Falcon saying, "So that is how it will be?"

"Yes." Her smile was grotesque. "Howard will know the pain of our world at the point of my son's climax."

"Sometimes, Roma," Falcon said, pulling away from her, "your humor is hideous."

She shrugged. "I have never professed any desire toward becoming a comedienne, darling." She snapped at him playfully, laughing as he jerked away from her flashing fangs.

Nydia emerged from the bathroom looking pale. "That's the very first time in my life I ever forced myself to vomit," she said. "How do you feel, Sam?"

"A little weak." He opened a napkin and took out several rolls, handing one to her. "Eat this, it'll give you strength. You'll need it. I don't think they could drug the bread."

They sat on the edge of the bed, sharing their meager dinner, their stomachs accepting the bread after the self-induced vomiting.

Sam glanced at his watch. "What did you tell your mother?"

"That we were tired and were going to rest for a while."

"Her reaction?"

"She smiled and said that was probably a good idea. Sam? You seem to know a lot about what is going to happen—when will the mass take place?"

"Tonight. Full dark. That's what popped into my head. And we're going to be there, watching."

Her voice was filled with fear as she asked, "Do we have to?"

"Yes. I want to know just who is involved. Who I have to destroy."

She trembled beside him. "Why did I suddenly get this feeling we have passed the point of no return?"

And just as Sam took her hand into his, some small thing touched him, touched him inwardly, striking with a hard but invisible force. "Because we have."

They had gathered.

Among the circle of dark stones, the worshipers of the Dark One had silently grouped. The servants, including Jimmy Perkins; the ten young men and women who wished to serve a new Master; Roma and Falcon and Black. Howard stood naked inside the inner circle, his eyes glazed from the drugs in his system. The torchlight reflected dully from the scarcely comprehending eyes of the young man. Outside the circle of people, the Beasts had gathered quietly, more than a dozen of them. They stood patiently, slobber leaking from massive jaws, their eyes glowing red with evil anticipation. For they knew should someone die at a high mass, they would feast well on that night.

Roma went among the new members, cutting off a small piece of hair from each head, then she walked to a stone where The Book rested. Their names were carefully recorded in that evil book, the hair placed beside the name.

Just as we have done for hundreds of years, Roma silently mused. As I personally have done for more than four hundred of those years, and those before me for thousands, all the way back to the caves … and beyond, before the first flood.

Roma cut her eyes to Howard's nakedness as a feeling of something very much amiss struck her. Something was all wrong. Falcon sensed it as well, walking swiftly to her side.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice low.

"The Master is here. And he is angry."

"What about?"

"I don't know."

The voice of the Ruler of the Netherworld boomed in their heads, thundering to them in a roar only they could hear. "Is this the best you can do? One shivering male?"

Roma thrust her thoughts to the Ruler of Hell: "We did not think you would object."

"You did not think!" Satan roared, causing them both to cringe. "That much is correct. Look at your idiot son, Roma. Look at him stroking his organ, practically drooling at the mouth like a Beast as he thinks about man love. Disgusting! And the son that should have been mine is crouched not a thousand meters from the circle, watching with your daughter. The daughter that should be taking part in this ceremony … worshiping me! You have failed me, Roma. Don't fail again. Wilder warned me you had a streak of decency in you; a very narrow streak, to be sure, but nevertheless … there.

"What in the name of all that is unholy have I ever done to deserve you two? This should be easy. The world is spinning about in utter chaos; wars breaking out everywhere; morals finally declining at a satisfying rate of deterioration; drugs and free sex and … oh, for pity's sake! Do I have to lecture the both of you? If so, I have failed miserably.

"Now, you hear me well, witch and warlock: the both of you will not fail this time. These are my commands: you will establish a Coven on these grounds; to insure that, I have ordered more members in, to reinforce this group. They will be here tonight. You, Roma, will give me a demon son from the seed of Balon's bastard; you, Falcon, will give me a bitch demon from the womb of Nydia. But test them before you seduce them—as God is doing—see if they are worthy of my touch. You must offer them ample opportunity to leave, and allow them to do so if that is their choice. Of course," the Devil chuckled, "you can also ambush them on their way out."

The torches smoked for a few moments, the circle of stones silent in the flickering light. Then Satan roared.

"Do either of you really think I care how you accomplish any of this? I don't care how you go about it. I don't care if there is a sacrifice this night. I put the sacrifice business in the mind of that fool writer a thousand years ago … it's been repeated ever since. Why is everything I say constantly taken out of context? Can't I make a joke occasionally? After all, I was once an angel, and a goddamned good one, if I do say so myself. I'm not humorless. I gave the world Pilate, Hitler, and rock and roll music, didn't I?

"No, Roma, Falcon, you will not fail me. I want to hear the screaming of those puky holy people; I want to hear the wailing as their blood stains the ground, and I want to see a demon burst forth from your womb, and a matching bitch from the cunt of your Christian daughter.

"There are no rules—none! I have this precognition that I am going to be defeated in Whitfield. Very well. I can live with that; I can accept it. I will derive some satisfaction from it, however: the wailing and begging of Balon's Christian whore as she is ravaged and flogged and finally nailed naked onto my cross. And, no, you may rest your fears, Balon will not interfere here. He'll be much too busy back in Whitfield, with that impossible golem.

"No, that meddler from the firmament broke His word, even though He denies it, so I see no need for many rules. But you two hear me well: I want blood, pain, degradation, filth … everything we believe in … and more. Tell your fool son to mount the male if that is what he desires; he will never be anything other than a stooge to me. Failure, Roma. You failed with both your latest children. But at least, and it pains me to say this, Nydia did accept something; she is faithful to something. Which is much more than can be said of that foolish son of yours. He disgusts me. Scheming, plotting, foolish, foolish boy.

"It is doubtful I shall return here until you have completed your assignments. I must return west. That psalm singer broke His word, thinks He has me fooled; thinks I believe He has departed. Well, I don't trust Him. I know He's got something up His sleeve—I just don't know what. Be careful: Balon's goody-two-shoes son has tremendous powers, which is another reason I'm sending in help. So, good-bye. And don't fail me!"

"Something happened," Sam whispered. "I feel as if I was locked in some kind of time warp, where everything stood still."

"Me, too," Nydia said, returning the whisper. "Look! Roma and Falcon are moving now."

"They were speaking with Satan."

"How do you know that?"

"Some … one just told me."

She looked at him in the darkness, her eyes wide and scared. "Who?"

"I don't know."

Nydia suddenly gasped. "My God!" She grabbed at Sam's arm. "Look at that."

Both of them grimaced their shock and horror as Howard was led to the dark altar by two servants and Black began his sodomy of the young man. Howard screamed his outrage and pain, fighting against hands that held him while Black laughed as he forced the ugliness.

Howard screamed again, his cries echoing around the small valley. Roma ran to the scene of rape, her black robe open, exposing her nakedness, the stones preventing Sam and Nydia from seeing what was taking place. They could but wonder what the witch was doing.

Kneeling in front of the altar, Roma sank her teeth into the femoral artery of Howard's thigh, the blood gushing from the fang bites, spilling over her face and lips. She drank greedily of the hot red liquid, biting him again and again, working steadily upward, until his thigh and groin area were pricked with the needle marks.

She drew away from him, her face covered with blood. Howard's cries tapered off into low moans as Black began shivering with approaching climax. The Beasts began dancing, a grotesque, obscene hunching, a debasement of any rhythm that needed grace or beauty. Soon all were dancing and chanting: "Prince of Darkness! King of the Night! Lord of the Flies and of Filth! Hear this one scream for you!"

Howard screamed as Black climaxed. The Coven members danced about the altar, tearing off their clothes. Howard lay unconscious across the altar.

Falcon pointed to the young man draped in humiliation across the flat stone altar. "Tend to his needs," he ordered.

Then, oblivious to the cold and the damp, the men and women coupled like animals, their naked bodies gleaming in the torch-lit circle of stones.

The naked Satan worshipers began fucking like dogs, while the Beasts danced and howled and slobbered around them, their own erections starkly vivid in the flickering light.

Roma took Jimmy into her ageless cunt, while Falcon impaled a screaming Sandy against the damp ground, the young woman suddenly filled with his massive organ. She screamed her pleasure-pain and wrapped young legs around the older man's back, meeting him lunge for lunge, shrieking out her evil joy. She cried blasphemies, flinging the oaths into the night air, her shrill voice seeming to push the others into more profane, perverted acts.

"I've seen enough," Sam said, taking Nydia's hand, leading her away from the circle of flickering lights, back toward the house. They were dressed in dark clothing, blending into the night as they walked.

As they walked away from the blasphemous screaming and cursing, from the scene of Devil worship, Nydia said, "I get the feeling mother knew we were watching. You?"

"Yes. And I think Satan told her we were."

"That … feeling of being suspended for a time."

"Yes." They waited in silence for a time, Sam breaking the mood by asking, "I wonder what my mother is doing?"

"You should have seen Hershel do his stuff this afternoon," Miles excitedly told Jane Ann over the phone. The only two phones belonging to believers that still worked in Whitfield, although the plugs had been pulled and the wires severed by phone-company personnel. "Those people who have been so crappy to us for the past year don't act so high and mighty now."

"Sam didn't do so badly himself," she replied. She looked around for the mist that was Balon. She could not see any evidence of the vapor, but she knew he was present.

"Janey? We're all right here. I don't understand what is happening; why this has to happen; why God just doesn't take us if that is His will … but you, are you doing all right?"

"I was afraid, Miles. But Sam comforted me. I prayed. You?"

"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?"

"I baptized her."

Roma grimaced, her nose wrinkling as if she smelled something bad. "How perfectly disgusting. Before or after you fucked her?''

Sam stood in the doorway. He said nothing.

Roma smiled. "You Christians—self-proclaimed—really want it both ways, don't you? You want on the one hand to mouth all those heavenly platitudes, but you still want to fuck whenever the mood grips you. Have you eaten her pussy yet, Sam?"

Sam returned her sardonic smile, sensing she was deliberately baiting him, trying to anger him.

She laughed. "Very good, Sam—I couldn't bait your father, either. Who, by the way, is also Nydia's father. And, of course, the father of Black. Just thought you might like to know that the next time you got an urge to screw."

"We know," Sam said.

"Fucking your half sister, Sam? My, my! What does your God have to say about that?"

"I don't know. I haven't asked Him."

She arched an eyebrow. "Well … how casual you are. That cosmic gnome you worship might take exception at your flip attitude toward sex."

"We'll take our chances."

Then, without explanation, her smile changed to one containing a trace of sadness. "Believe me, darling … we are all about to do that. I see no reason to stand here in the hallway discussing this. Why don't we behave as civilized human beings," she laughed aloud at that, "and adjourn to the den where we can be more comfortable? I assure you, no harm will befall either of you. We do have a great deal to discuss."

"Mac, Howard, Linda, Judy, Lana?" Nydia spoke from her seat on the edge of the bed.

'They are sleeping soundly. Howard on his stomach, I should imagine. I have no doubt but what you will both rush to their sides upon their waking to tell them the dire news."

"Isn't Howard one of you now?" Sam asked, and wondered how he knew that.

"Ah … perhaps. Yes. You are a wise one, aren't you? Of course, he is."

"Then get him out of Mac's room and bunk him somewhere else. Give Mac a chance, at least."

Roma flushed. "You, young man, do not order me about."

Sam slammed the door in her face.

A short pause, a tap on the door. Sam opened the door, Roma's anger was under control, her face no longer nushed. "You're very sure of your power, aren't you, Sam Balon King?"

"As certain as I can be that my God will protect me against those who serve the Beast."

Roma turned her head and spoke in a language that Sam did not recognize. When she again faced him, he asked, "What language was that?"

"Ancient Gallic. I speak all languages known on earth, Sam—and many that have long since vanished."

"Considering how ancient you must be, I should imagine that would come in handy."

Roma howled her approval. "Oh, very good, Sam! Score one point for you. Oh, my, yes. You are a most worthy foe. I have instructed that Howard be moved into a room of his own." She smiled. "For all the good it will do Mac. Are you coming to the den?"

Sam glanced at Nydia. She nodded her head, her face pale. "Yes," Sam said to the witch.

She vanished in front of his eyes, without a trace.

"Unusual activity tonight," the astronomer said to his colleague, his partner in sharing the lonely nights searching the Heavens from their earth-bound observatory in California.

"Oh? What type?"

"I … don't know that I can explain it."

His friend glanced at him. "Twenty-five years in this business and you give me an answer like that? Come on, Ralph: you can do better."

"Quick bursts of light; not connected with anything I know about. Strange. Almost … almost … like messages being sent from deep space."

"You been reading the Bible again, Ralph?" his friend asked, not unkindly, but with a slight sarcastic tone to his voice. It was something his partner had grown used to years before.

"I read the Bible every day, Glenn."

Glenn rose from behind his desk and climbed up the ladder to the huge telescope, actually a series of scopes, each amplifying the other, boosting the power to tremendous dimensions. The agnostic watched the Heavens for a few moments, pausing only to check his computations against those of his friend. They matched perfectly, verifying the location of the supposed sighting.

"Nothing, Ralph. You've been working too hard, that's all.

Ralph said nothing in reply.

"Did you shoot film?"

"You know I did." The reply was softly stated.

"Well … let's develop it."

But Ralph was strangely reluctant to do that, and that only peaked his colleague's curiosity even further. And when questioned, he would only shake his head.

"All right, Ralph." Glenn sat beside his friend. "Come on, give. We've been friends too long for this silent act."

Ralph looked at his friend and coworker for many, many years. Looked at him closely. Unlike Glenn, Ralph was a Christian—or tried to be—and he believed in the big bang theory about as much as he believed a duck could shit gold dust. "There won't be anything on the film," he finally said.

"Why?"

"Because what I saw can't be—won't be—filmed, that's why. So let's change the subject. Get some coffee."

Glenn put out a restraining hand. "I won't kid about your belief in God, Ralph. I can sense this is not the time. And I believe you did see something, and I stress 'something.' It will not go any further than this platform. I give my word. Now what did you see?"

Ralph's eyes appeared deep-sunk in his skull, and his face was pale. He ran nervous fingers through thinning hair. "I … saw the face of God."

Glenn sat quietly for a moment. "All right, Ralph. Is that all? What else? What did He look like?"

"Angry. Concerned. Worried. And … awesome. Oh … did He look awesome. Breathtaking."

'In human form?"

"In a … manner of speaking."

"What was He doing? Just skipping around the sky? And I don't mean that in an ugly way."

"He … was meeting with someone … something. Another being."

"Ralph! Have you lost your mind? Are you serious about this?"

"Yes, I'm serious. He … was … well, it looked like … He had intercepted someone … something. A being, like I said. I've never seen anything like it. Glenn … it was … terrible. It was beautiful, wrathful. I hate to be redundant, but it was awesome."

"Explain awesome."

"I … don't know that I can. The figure was … holding something in one … mighty hand. It … oh, don't think me nuts, Glenn … looked like a sword or big knife. The figure appeared … I don't know. Exalted, I guess."

Glenn had worked with his friend for too many years to think he was pulling his leg, and to not take him seriously. Ralph Fairbanks was a highly respected man in his field, one of the top men in the world, constantly in demand for speaking engagements and classroom lectures.

Something very close to excited fear touched Glenn. He had not experienced it in a long time. "Go on, buddy … tell it all."

Somewhere in the vastness of the huge planetarium, a phone began to ring. It rang several times before someone stilled the jangling.

Ralph sighed. "It … seemed to me that the two … figures were, well, arguing, I guess is the right word. Almost violently. The one more . . . imposing figure, impressive, was pointing upward; the warrior-appearing figure was pointing downward, pointing with that terrible-looking weapon he … it held in his hand."

The blinker on the phone popped on. Glenn finally picked up the telephone. "Yeah?" He listened for a moment, his eyes widening. "No warning; no nothing? Impossible!" He listened for a moment longer. "All in one night? This close together? Good God!" He hung up.

"What?" his friend asked.

"Small volcano in the Malay archipelago just blew its cork. Hell, it's been dormant for centuries."

'No warning?"

"None."

Ralph smiled. "What else?"

"How do you know there was anything else?"

'I know."

"Couple of small monsoons. A tidal wave or two. All without serious damage. No reported injuries or deaths. Earthquake in a couple of places. No major damage. People reporting some sort of … heavenly voices coming out of the sky. Their words; damn sure not mine. Large hail in spots. Tremendous lightning reported around Montreal."

"Where around Montreal?"

"Eighty-ninety miles north. Why?"

" 'And the temple of God was opened in Heaven,' " Ralph said, closing his eyes, " 'and there was seen in his temple the ark of his testament; and there were lightnings, and voices, and thunderings, and an earthquake, and great hail.' "

"What the hell is that drivel, Ralph?"

"Revelation, chapter eleven, verse nineteen."

"It was a fluke of nature, Ralph!"

"If that is what you believe, Glenn."

"Goddamnit, Ralph! Now listen to me: you're a scientist. You know as well as I there is a logical explanation for everything. I'm not going to argue fact and fiction with you; we've been doing that for a quarter of a century, and all it gets us is out of sorts with each other. I'm going to get that fucking film and see what's on it. I'll be back shortly."

When Glenn returned, Ralph had not moved from his seat. "Nothing on the film, Ralph. Nothing took."

"I told you there wouldn't be."

"I'm going to switch scope positions; take a look at that new star."

"All right."

"You don't object?"

"Why should I?"

"Maybe your … apparitions will pop up again. Don't you want to see your holy people?"

Ralph smiled at his friend's sarcasm. "I've seen them."

The red light on the phone glowed. Glenn answered it, listening for a moment. When he turned to his friend, the expression on his face was strange … tight.

"News?" Ralph asked.

"Some … stargazers up in Canada wanted to know if any of us had witnessed … something … some visions in the sky tonight. Said they shot film, but nothing developed. Said he didn't want me to think him a fool, or that he'd been boozing on the job, but it appeared to be two … things arguing."

"And?" Ralph prodded him, knowing there was more.

"He said," Glenn sighed, "that others had called in, from reporting stations all around the world. Said they all witnessed the same … whatever it was. Said they were all—to use his words—awestruck."

"Go on, Glenn."

"You really want to rub my nose in it, don't you?"

"No, old friend, I don't."

"Well … I didn't see it. If I had seen it, I probably would have been able to identify the sighting without tailing back on unproven superstition."

The two men glared at each other for a few seconds, Ralph finally breaking the silence. "What is it they claim to have seen?"

The astronomer stalked from the upper platform, carefully climbing down the ladder to the lower level. He walked to the door, his back stiff with anger. There, he paused, turning around. "They all claim to have seen … the face of God."

He slammed the door behind him.

Ralph looked upward, at the stars that twinkled high above him through the open roof. He said, in a voice that held the utmost respect, "I never had any doubts."

TWELVE

"Do you want introductions?" Roma asked the young couple.

"I imagine we'll all get to know one another very well before the next eight days are up," Sam answered.

The den was crowded with young people, and Sam knew Nydia felt as he did: somewhat edgy and very much alone. The young people, the kids they had seen being forced into the house were not present. Sam supposed they had been drugged and put to bed. Most of the men in the room were hard-looking types, with craggy faces and savage eyes. The women were attractive, in a sultry, evil way, with unreadable eyes. A couple were beautiful. Several young people no older than Sam were present, standing off to one side with the people from Nelson and Carrington College. They all wore smirky expressions, cocky looks, their eyes bright and shiny with depraved confidence.

"Members of the older Covens in this country and the United States," Falcon said, gesturing at the new group. "Your God broke the rules. We saw no reason to maintain our standards."

"Why are you telling us this?" Sam asked.

"So you can make your choice, naturally," Falcon replied. "Live or die … the latter being rather hideously, I might add, should you foolishly choose that course."

"The choice has been made for us," Sam said, glancing at Nydia.

"That was yesterday," Roma said. "I assure you both, you may leave this area if you so desire."

"Our God would prefer we remain," Nydia said, the words blurting from her mouth.

Falcon laughed as his eyes mentally undressed the young woman. Of all the females present, Nydia was by far the most lovely and desirable, and Falcon was looking forward to the moment when he would spread those lovely legs and position himself inside the wet heat of her. "My, Nydia, how brave you have become with your newfound religion. Are you looking forward to servicing half a dozen men—at one time?"

"I don't believe that time will come. Falcon," she told him, a set to her chin that was alien to him.

"We'll see," the reply was spoken softly, filled with menace.

One of the new men opened his trousers and brazenly exposed his penis, long and thick. He stroked his manhood and grinned nastily at Nydia. "I am certainly looking forward to the time."

"Put it back in your pants, Karl," Roma told him. She cut her eyes to Sam. "Don't you see your position is hopeless?"

"If that is the case, why not just take us now?" Sam asked. "What are you afraid of?"

The room filled with laughter. "Afraid?" Roma said. "My dear, we are not afraid. Put that out of your mind. If, or when, the time arrives, we shall take you both by force. But why so soon? Why risk personal injury when there is always the chance we can convince you—both of you—to come to our side?"

"You will be tempted." Balon's words in the letter filled Sam's head. "And you will fall to some of those temptations."

Sam remained silent.

"I'm Toni," one of the young women said. "And I have a question: why would you want to resist us? I don't understand. I was once a Christian; raised in the church. A few years ago my mother was dying of cancer. I prayed to her God—my God, then—to save her, spare her, or at least allow her to die mercifully. He did neither. She died a long, slow, horrible death—unforgivably agonizing. Don't hand me the bullshit of your God being a good and just God. Yet, after I joined the Forces of Darkness, my father was struck by a car and lay dying in a hospital. I asked our Master to save him, and he did." She moved to Karl's side. "This is my father. See, he is alive and well." She put her hand on his crotch and caressed his penis. She giggled. "Very well, I can assure you both of that."

Neither Sam nor Nydia had anything to say about the incestuous relationship. But both of them wondered about their own.

"Your God offers you nothing," Toni continued, her fingers rubbing her father's crotch. "The Prince of Darkness offers everything. And really, our Master demands so little, as compared to the rules your God expects you to follow. Don't you agree?"

"We serve our God," Sam said. "Our God serves us."

"Double-talk," Toni said. She looked at Nydia, open envy in her eyes as she gazed at her beauty. "I hope your man fucks with more conviction than he talks."

Nydia's smile was sweet, but tinged with hot anger. "Odds are, dear, you'll never know. You'd better stick with dear old dad."

Toni flushed with rage, moving toward Nydia, her fists balled. No one made any attempt to stop her. When she got within swinging distance, Nydia, to Sam's surprise, gave the young woman a solid shot to the jaw with a hard right cross, sending her sprawling to the carpet. Toni landed on her rump and sat there for a moment, a glazed look in her eyes, her jaw beginning to redden and swell.

"You have all discovered," Roma spoke to the room, "that my daughter is very capable of taking care of herself." She gave Falcon a hot look. "Thanks to him. He insisted upon teaching her the rudiments of self-defense when she was a child."

Falcon had to smile. "Very good, Nydia. You remembered well."

Nydia rubbed her bruised knuckles and said nothing.

"Well?" Roma whirled to glare at Sam. "Your decision?"

"We're staying," Nydia and Sam answered in unison.

"A decision you will live to regret," Roma said with a smile, but thinking: all is working out very well.

The lights went out, plunging the room into darkness.

Nydia screamed in terror.

And from the firmament, the vault of Heaven, a figure ripped toward earth, moving at a speed untrackable by any machine known to man.

As the figure from the world behind the veil again made contact with earth, by the circle of stones behind the home known as Falcon House, a strange, unearthly sound was heard, and the creatures of the forest and the Beasts under the ground were still, as if frozen in motion by the appearance of the near apparition. The figure, huge, pale, and ghostly, made no sound as it walked to the dark circle to sit on one of the dark stones. There, it appeared to brood for a moment, its eyes like lighted sparklers in the night, but to be seen only by those of his choosing.

The phantom traveler rose from the rock and turned its awesome bearded face to the great house, its eyes becoming as mysterious as its identity and mission. The eyes glowed for a brief time, then faded into hard tiny bits of diamond white. The traveler turned his back to the dark mansion, shook its great head, and walked toward the darkness of the forest. The ground trembled slightly as the manlike traveler walked, its feet clad in sandals, with leather thongs laced up the legs, almost to the knees. The dark robe was ankle long, belted at the waist with leather.

As the ghostly appearing man passed the rock altar, still stained with the semen from the man rape, a sword appeared in one mighty hand. The sword came down on the altar of defilement with a clash of sparks and a noise not unlike thunder. Where the sword had struck the stone a huge splotch of white appeared, starkly visible in the night, burned forever in the altar stone.

The awesome man snorted in disgust, and then spat on the ground beside the black altar, the spittle hissing and sizzling on the earth.

And then the cosmic traveler was gone, vanishing as quickly as it came.

Sam felt hard hands reach for him and grab him by the shoulders. Instinctively, he reacted as he had been taught: with extreme prejudice toward his attacker, with survival the name of the game. He jammed stiffened fingers into the throat of the man, spun, and ripped one hand loose from his shoulders, savagely twisting it until he heard the joint pop loose from the shoulder socket. The man screamed in pain and fell to the carpet just as the lights came back on. Nydia had dropped to the floor when the room was engulfed in darkness. She was crouched behind a sofa on one denim-clad knee. "All right?" Sam asked. She nodded silently.

The man who had attacked Sam lay moaning on the floor, his face as twisted as his arm, which lay useless, out of the socket, the arm having been turned a full 360 degrees, something a human arm was not constructed to endure.

Sam spoke to the room of people, his voice thick with emotion, with all present knowing he meant every word, "I'll kill the next person who touches Nydia or me. Do you all understand that?"

His eyes touched each person, male and female, adult and teenager. Only a few eyes did not drop away from his savage gaze.

Nydia rose to stand by him. Sam took her hand. "Let's go."

"Wait!" Roma said, stopping them as they turned to leave the room. "Someone, drag that foolish man from the room," she ordered, then looked at the Christians. "That will be the last act of physical violence directed against either of you—unless you attack us first—until we have decided your decision to stay with your God is firm and irrevocable. I promise you that. And I further promise to personally punish anyone who tries to harm you—physically—during that time." She quickly scanned the room with her dark eyes. "And the punishment will be severe. We will, however, attempt to sway you with words, deeds, and visual action or events. You have until midnight Thursday. After that …" She shrugged.

"THIS IS YOUR PERIOD OF TESTING!" the voice boomed in Sam's head. It was a voice he had not heard before, and it seemed to be near. "You were warned that you would be tempted. Fear not, for the LORD GOD is with you. Resist all you can, with all your might, and do not fear should you sometimes fail, for Christians are not required to be perfect, they are simply forgiven."

The voice faded into silence.

"Did you hear that?" Sam questioned Nydia silently.

"No. Hear what?"

"I'll tell you later."

Roma was conscious of something alien in the room, not physically present, but more a mental thrusting, and whatever it was made her flesh crawl with disgust. And something else crept its way up and down her spine: the first unfamiliar tentacles of fear. She fought the unfamiliar feelings until she had successfully driven them away, then stood quietly as her daughter and Sam left the room. She glanced at Falcon.

He pushed into her brain: "Did you feel that power a moment ago?"

"Yes."

"What was it?"

"I don't know."

She averted her eyes and looked at Karl, remembering his long, thick penis. She licked her lips and Karl smiled.

Falcon's eyes touched upon Toni, and she returned the frankly sexual leer.

"I believe," Black said, speaking for the first time, "that we all should retire for a little fun and games. We have time, for we are many and they are but two puny Christians." He put his arm around a young girl and squeezed one breast, feeling her braless nipple swell under his palm.

Fool! Roma looked at him, knowing that her son would never survive any violent encounter with Sam Balon's Christian offspring. By all that is unholy, she mused, talking toward Karl, Nydia could probably whip him. She thought: I have given my word, and I must see to it :hat it is kept. Saturday through Thursday, no violent acts toward either of them ... of course, she smiled, what is pudding to one person is poison to another. I will have the time to seduce Sam; to impregnate me, for that is not considered an act of violence if he agrees … one way or the other.

"You are truly a beautiful woman," Karl said to her when she reached his side.

"Yes, I know," she said smiling. "And that was a magnificent organ you displayed a few moments ago," she said returning the compliment. "For a bit of stimulation, shall we play voyeur for a time, watching Falcon work his way into your daughter?"

Karl licked thick lips. "Will she scream?" he asked, eyes bright with anticipation at the prospect of watching his daughter couple with the Master's agent on earth. There was always the chance she would be impregnated, and birth a demon. That would make the Master proud.

"They always do," Roma replied.

Sam and Nydia lay side by side in Sam's bed, but the only thing touching between them was their fingers. Sam told her of the voice in his head, and of the message.

She was silent for a time, then said, "Despite that, Sam, and all that is happening around us, I want you."

"Yes," was his reply.

"But I don't believe we should, do you?"

"No."

"Sam?"

"Yes?"

"It may be wrong—I think it is, at times, that is—but I have to say it: I love you."

"And I love you, Nydia."

He could hear her silent weeping, and it cut at him. She asked, "Is it wrong, Sam?"

"I … don't know. We'll have to ask when this is over."

"Who do we ask?"

"I don't know that either. But I believe that somehow an … answer will be found. Here, I think. I get the feeling a moral question is not the … not going to be the main issue."

"I don't understand."

"Neither do I. Those words just popped into my head."

"Am I part of your temptation, Sam?"

"A little bit, I believe, and I am a part of yours."

"It isn't fair. God knew we would be thrown together, and surely He knew we would fall in love."

The words sprang into his head, then rolled from his tongue. "He had His reasons, Nydia. We'll know them when we face them."

She turned her back to him and cried herself to sleep, very much aware of him next to her … and wanting him.

* * *

"You're restless this night, Sam," Jane Ann said. She had abruptly awakened and automatically looked around the room for the mist that was Balon.

"In a manner of speaking, yes."

"Don't you sleep in your world?"

"Not as you know it."

"You're holding something back from me," she said, her tone not accusing.

"Yes."

"And you're worried about it." Not spoken as a question.

"To a degree."

"Can't you tell me about your concern?"

"A … friend; an acquaintance … a longtime resident of the world without end … has quarreled with God. He has found an exit and left the firmament. Against orders, I think. But I can't be certain of that. Even He … has moods."

"He made man in His own image, didn't He?"

"Yes and no. He made man and woman in our image."

"I don't understand."

"You will."

"Very well. Who is your friend that he would have the courage to quarrel with God?"

"A mighty warrior. The mightiest of the mighty. And a man who hates Satan and everything the Beast stands for."

"Does he have a name?"

"Yes."

"But you're not going to tell me, are you?"

Balon was silent.

"Is God angry with your friend?"

"I doubt it. No more than He is angry with me for leaving."

"Has your friend come to earth before?"

"Which earth?"

"Tricked you with that one, didn't I?" She smiled. "I got some information you weren't supposed to give, I'll bet."

"Jane Ann …" Balon seemed to sigh in exasperation.

"All right. This earth."

"Many times."

"Where is he?"

"He is not here."

Jane Ann smiled. "Michael, the archangel. Has to be. It's reasonable to assume you would make friends with him. Both of you enjoy a good fight."

Balon projected nothing, but the mist seemed to stir.

Jane Ann giggled, the giggling startling Balon. He projected: "What in the name of all that is right and just do you find to giggle about? A woman of your age?"

"A woman my age? Oh? I didn't realize I was so unattractive."

"I didn't say that, Janey. I just … well, I can't seem to make you understand the seriousness of the situation."

"Oh, I understand, believe me, I do. I know all the pain and degradation that lies before me … that I have to face before I am taken home. At least I think I do. But my main concern was of and for Sam. Now I know that he will be all right."

"How like a woman."

"Chauvinism in Heaven? Really, Sam! How mundane."

"Go to sleep, Jane Ann. You're getting carried away with this verbal cuteness."

"You're angry with me."

"That emotion is not … really displayed in my world."

"What emotions are allowed?"

"Allowed is not the correct word. But I'll let it be."

"Is love allowed?"

"Of course. Love is pure and good and just. You'll see, Janey."

"Love between two people?"

"In … a sense, yes."

"Sam?"

"What is it now?"

"I love you, Sam Balon."

"Go to sleep, Jane Ann."

"Chicken."

"Go to sleep!"

And she drifted off into a calm sleep, even though she felt she knew the horror that lay before her. She was not afraid. And when she had tucked herself into the comfortable arms of Morpheus, and her breathing had slowed, leveled, the mist that was Balon came to her, to hover over her.

And as the ever-living vapor wavered by her, Balon projected: "Oh, Jane Ann, you do not know how hard I fought to come here; you do not know how difficult it was; and you do not know the horror that awaits you. But I do. And I will suffer as you, but will be powerless to help until the end. When your time comes, Jane Ann, don't fight it; let life slip from you; let it ebb until I can take a hand and end your suffering.

"We sinned, Jane Ann, years ago, we sinned—just as our son and my daughter have sinned and will sin again, for Him. But God works strangely, sometimes, my love, and to enter His kingdom is not the easiest or the simplest thing to do. Have strength and faith, my love, for I will be beside you in all your trials, and He will be watching us both.

And I do love you, my darling. As much in this world of mine, His world, as I did as a mortal."

And the mist became a blanket that covered her with a gentleness, a love so pure, it could only come from above.

THIRTEEN

It was as if nothing evil had taken place, or was about to occur at Falcon House. The late breakfast was all smiles and cordiality, with everyone present speaking and smiling at Sam and Nydia, each group inviting them to sit and have breakfast with them.

Sam and Nydia declined each offer, electing to sit at a table by themselves, after serving themselves at the buffet line. Roma appeared at their table, assuring them the food was not drugged, and would not be again. Up until midnight Thursday. She added the disclaimer with a slight smile.

"Your friends will join you momentarily," the beautiful witch said. "And be assured, they are all right."

"The young girls who came with the new group?" Nydia asked.

"Alive and well," her mother assured her.

"Where are they?"

"In a safe place."

"Why aren't they allowed to dine with us?" The daughter held on to the subject like a bulldog.

"Why … they might decide to run away, hurting themselves in the process. They might run off into the woods, and get lost."

"Better that than what you have planned for them, Mother."

The two women stared daggers at each other.

"Drop the other shoe, Roma," Sam said, chewing slowly, reflectively, a thought just popping into his mind.

Roma helped herself to a piece of her daughter's toast, nibbling at it. "Why, whatever do you mean, Sam?"

"You know perfectly well what I mean. But it won't work, Roma. I won't come over to your side because of the kids."

"I see," she said, her smile suddenly very evil. "Oh … wait until you hear them screaming, Sam, dear, then make up your mind."

"You said no violence, Roma," he reminded her.

"No physical violence directed against either of you," Roma corrected. "And has anyone been ugly toward either of you this morning?"

"It won't work, Roma."

"I think I'll give one to Karl this evening." The evil smile became more malevolent. "Yes … Janet, I believe. The youngest one. Twelve, I believe she is. What a tight, tender cunt she must have. Oh, my … how she will wail."

Sam looked at her, the loathing for her blistering through his eyes. "And if I choose to interfere?"

"Why, darling … then we must defend ourselves. It would be only right and proper according to the rules. After all, we would not be assaulting you, would we?"

"You just have to be, Roma, the most despicable bitch I have ever encountered."

She patted his hand. "Of course, I am, darling. And I am so looking forward to you making love to me."

"Never!"

"Never say never, darling." She patted his cheek and laughed as he slapped her fingers away. "Ta-ta, ciao, and all that, dears."

She walked away, a regal bearing to her stride. She stopped at each table, chatting for a few seconds with each Coven member.

"She acts like this is some sort of fucking social gathering," Sam said.

Lana, Linda, and Judy appeared in the archway to the dining area. Black and Susan just behind them. "Judy looks very pale," Nydia observed.

"Take a look at her neck when she sits down," Sam said, the words popping from his mouth. As before, he wondered where they came from. Then he said, "Your mother is a vampire."

Nydia dropped her fork on the plate. "Don't ask me how I know, Nydia. I just do."

"Then Black … ?"

"Must be the same. Falcon, too." And the vision came to him, numbing him: the events of the black mass replaying vividly in his mind. "That's what she was doing kneeling by Howard, hidden by the stones. Remember what I said to her in the room: Howard was one of them, now?'

"My mother drinks … blood!"

"Gross, isn't it."

"I don't believe it, Sam. I … just can't. That kind of thing … I mean …" She shoved her half-eaten breakfast from her. "Who is telling you these things, Sam?"

"The same person … thing … whatever, whose voice I heard earlier. The one I told you about. The message about the period of testing."

She gazed at the young man she loved so desperately. Something about him had changed. He seemed older, stronger. "Your face has changed, Sam. It's … harder, somehow."

"I know." The reply was quiet but firm.

The trio of young women sat down with them, Lana and Linda bubbling and happy, Judy strangely silent, forcing a smile of greeting, picking at her food.

Sam looked at her neck; the fang marks were partially hidden by makeup, but the bites were visible if one knew what to look for. He lifted his eyes to Nydia, projecting silently: "She is one of them. Be careful."

Nydia nodded her head, a gesture so minute only Sam saw it.

"This is so wonderful," Linda gushed. "Isn't this the grandest house you've ever seen?" She looked around at the new arrivals. "Who are all these people?"

"Some friends of my parents'," Nydia said.

"Mr. Falcon is taking me horseback riding this afternoon," Lana said. "Going to show me the country. I bet it's just beautiful."

And I'll bet that's not all he's going to show you, Sam thought. He wondered how to tell her of what fate awaited her.

"You will not." The voice filled his head. "Neither of them."

Why? Sam silently flung the question to the unknown being or beings that seemed to hover invisibly around the estate.

And the voice came to him: "They were raised in the church and have been washed in the blood. They know their true God. The choice is theirs to make. There is nothing you can or will do."

"I don't understand," Sam said, projecting his reply. "But I will do what you say. Whoever you are."

Sam was very conscious of Nydia's eyes on him, unspoken questions in them. He projected: "Later."

"What are you two going to do this afternoon?" Linda asked Nydia.

"Read, relax, maybe take a walk. Would you and Judy like to join us?"

"Oh, I'd just love it!" Linda replied. "I … don't take this the wrong way … I just can't seem to get close to the others. You know what I mean?"

"I know the feeling," Sam said dryly. He looked at Judy. "How about you?"

The look in her eyes chilled the young man. The look was vacant, not of this earth. And he knew, somehow, she was gone from this world, his faith, his help.

"She is beyond help," the voice rang in his head. "She is one of them. Her thoughts have never been pure, although she pretended they were to others around her. She has denied her God many times. She is gone. Gone beyond our help."

"I'll find something to do," Judy said. She abruptly rose from the table and walked out of the dining area.

"She's changed," Linda said. "Changed so drastically in just a few hours."

"Oh, that's just your imagination working overtime," Lana said. "Maybe she's worried about something, or just tired." She hurriedly ate her breakfast and dropped her napkin beside her plate. "Well … gotta go. Mr. Falcon's waiting. See you kids later." Then she was gone.

Linda looked first at Nydia, then at Sam. She put her hand on Sam's arm. "Don't leave me alone in this house," she pleaded. "I mean it. Something is going on around here that's … I don't know … just don't leave me alone. Please?"

"Okay," Sam said. "You stick with us."

But preoccupied as he was with the seemingly impossible task that stretched before him, some of it still vague in his mind, Sam did not see Nydia's eyes narrow in suspicion, her dark eyes flitting across Linda's face, as the young woman slowly removed her hand from Sam's arm.

In Whitfield, the crowds began to gather in front of Miles' home in early afternoon. Anita and Doris tried to ignore them; Miles stood guard by the picture window, a shotgun across his lap; Wade totally ignored the silent crowd, writing furiously in a note pad. The pad would soon join the growing pile of legal tablets on the floor beside his chair.

"Maybe somebody will read them," he had explained.

"Those insane people out there," Miles jerked his white-maned head. "Those … Satanists, they don't bother you?"

"Not as much as your chattering does, old friend," the aging newspaper editor smiled, not looking up from his frantic scribblings.

Miles looked at his wife, looking at him. "Doris, do I chatter? Me?"

"Like a squirrel," she replied.

"Some friends I got," Miles groused, rising from the chair. "I think I'll go sit with the golem." He walked out onto the porch. "Hershel, you want some company?"

The Clay Man looked at him, nothing on his expressionless face. He pointed to the door that led back into the house.

"You don't want my company, either?"

The golem continued his pointing.

"Wonderful," Miles said. "I'm in such demand. I made you, you know?" he said to the huge Clay Man.

The golem shook his head.

"I didn't make you? My hands ached for a month after digging all that clay from the riverbank. Now you're telling me I didn't make you?"

The golem rose from the steps and lumbered toward Miles, towering over him by several feet. He turned him as one might turn a paper doll and gave Miles a gentle shove toward the door.

"You don't have to get physical," Miles complained. "I get the point already."

The golem shook his head, pointed to the shotgun leaning in the corner by the front door, and then pointed to the back of the house.

Miles' face brightened. "Oh! You want me to guard the rear of the house?"

The huge gray man nodded solemnly.

"Wade, too?"

Again, the nod.

"You're a good man … ah, thing, Hershel. I like you. You don't carry on a conversation worth spit, but I like you. And," he looked up at the expressionless face, "for all of us, I thank you."

The golem looked upward, toward the Heavens.

"Thank Him? Oh, I have, Hershel. A hundred times each day."

The golem nodded and walked back to the steps, slowly sitting down, his massive arms dangling by his side, daring anyone to enter the territory he was given life to protect.

Wade was on his feet, shotgun in hand, when Miles reentered the house. "You heard?" Miles asked.

"The golem is smart," Wade said. "To think about the rear of the house."

"Smart?" Miles looked startled. "How can he be smart? He don't have a brain. He's clay, from the river outside of town, and that's dry half the time."

"He's smart in ways we won't ever understand," the editor insisted. "You may have molded him, old friend, but the Almighty breathed life into him."

Miles smiled. "Least I get credit for something."

"This is going to be the most difficult part, isn't it, Sam?" Jane Ann asked. "The waiting, I mean?"

"You've asked me that before. No. I told you: the most difficult part lies near the end. And you are not prepared to face it. Not yet."

She smiled, and she was beautiful. "I try not to think about it."

"It's time you did; time you began preparing. Get my Bible."

She walked to the table, picking up Balon's Bible. "You want me to read the twenty-third psalm?"

Balon smiled through his mist, projecting: "Never anticipate a command."

"Yes, Sergeant."

"Read psalm three. Read how the Lord will sustain you. Read it again and again until you know it by heart."

She sat with head bowed, reading aloud, again and again.

Finally, Balon said: "Now read psalms five and twenty."

She read and reread those, then looked at the mist.

"Now the twenty-third," he told her.

Then he had her read 46 and 90, and of the 119th, she read Nun.

Balon thrust: "Now read them again and again. Take comfort and keep the faith as you do so, for His words will sustain you."

She looked at the mist that was all she had ever loved on this earth and said, "I love you, Sam Balon."

"Read!"

"Isn't this lovely, my dear?" Falcon asked. "I find it so mentally refreshing to ride through all of nature's beauty."

"It is beautiful," Lana replied. "I feel … so peaceful here." She smiled at him. "And I'm glad I'm with you, Mr. Falcon."

"Thank you, dear. But just Falcon, please. I am too conscious of the differences in our ages as it is."

"Oh, that's silly, Falcon. You're the most handsome man I've ever met. Would you be offended if I asked a personal question?"

Would you be offended if I shoved this cock of mine in your pussy? Falcon thought. He smiled, riding behind her. And then in your mouth and up your ass? "Of course not, dear."

"Well," she turned to smile at him, "how … ah … old are you, Falcon?"

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.

FOURTEEN

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."

"You might have difficulty doing that with me."

"Sucking you off, you mean?"

"Crudely put, but correct."

"Nobody's that big."

His smile told her she was wrong.

"May I see?"

"By all means."

She opened his trousers and hissed at the sight, wrapping her soft fingers around the organ. "You'd make some of those porn stars look like babies. You really expect to stick all that into me?"

"That I do, my dear." He reached into an inside pocket and removed a medallion and gold chain. "This one is a bit different from the others. Much more intricate in detail. If you'll be so kind as to release your grip from my penis, dear, I'll get a magnifying glass and you can see for yourself."

She removed her hand from his penis. "I'll take your word for it, Falcon. But you still have not answered my question."

"I think you know the answer, Lana. Let's not be coy. After this half-hour of conversation, I feel I know you rather well. I don't believe your thoughts have been pristine and Christian for years. I don't believe you give one whit for any Christian God; so what does that leave you?"

"You're pretty sharp, Falcon."

"More than you know, Lana. And were I you, I'd bear that in mind."

"What do I have to do to get into your church … whatever you call it?"

"Put this medallion around your neck, renounce your God, and take the oath."

"That's it?"

"It's a one-way trip, my pretty."

"No returns, no exchanges," she stated.

"That's how uncomplicated it is. The Christian God is very unyielding about other gods, Lana, and quite specific about worshiping the Prince of Darkness."

"Big deal. I won't have to attend that stupid fucking college anymore?"

"No."

"I get a car of my choice, money, clothes, a place to live—a nice place?"

"All those things, dear."

"But it really means nothing to you, does it. Me, I mean."

His shrug was noncommittal.

"And you're not the only one I'll have to screw, right?"

"You'll understand once you become one of us, Lana."

She slipped the gold chain over her head, around her neck, the medallion gleaming dully between the mounds of her breasts. "Oh, what the hell," she said. "Tell me what I have to say."

The wailing had begun anew, with an added note of pain and horror that was increasingly difficult for Sam and Nydia to ignore.

Roma appeared at their open door, a smile on her red lips. "Her name is Janet," she said. "Such a pretty little thing. And Karl is holding up quite well for a man his age. He introduced himself to her pretty little pussy at first, now he is experimenting with the back door. I don't believe she's enjoying it very much, do you? Pity. I always have."

"I'll try it that way with you, Roma," Sam said, ignoring the sudden look of fright of Nydia's face.

"Oh?" the witch's face brightened.

"Yeah. But you're probably so wallowed out I'll have to tie a two by four on my ass to keep from falling in."

Pure evil hate flickered in Roma's eyes. "You'll pay dearly for that remark, Sam."

"Yeah," Sam said, the word coming out slow and soft. "You're probably right. But my payment will not be the way you're thinking of it."

Roma grinned wickedly. "You see, Sam Balon King: already you are thinking about your sins against your Master and how you will be punished. Oh, Sam! Why are you fighting what you know you truly want in your heart? Sam, Sam. My Master doesn't disapprove of a brother-sister love affair. And you two are in love; that's evident for all to see." She walked across the room, sitting down in a chair. "What does your God offer you—either of you?" she looked at her daughter. "You want me to answer for you? I can assure you both, I know the Bible far better than either of you. I can quote you book, chapter, and verse." Without waiting for a reply, she said, "Read Leviticus, Chapter eighteen. Read it … both of you, and see what His wrath will be."

Sam and Nydia sat quietly, listening to her.

"But my Master, children, oh, he is a far more forgiving Master than your God. And so much easier to obey.

"1 won't bore you or tempt you further, children. All I ask is that you both think about my words. Think about them while you two are lying in bed this night, close to each other, wanting each other, but fearful to touch. Fear, children, that's what your Master offers you … and nothing else."

She was gone, simply vanishing before their eyes.

Nydia and Sam looked at each other, the unspoken question in their minds hanging like a shroud between them.

"Incredibly tight," Falcon muttered hotly. "I don't believe I've ever had a woman this tight." He seemed oblivious to the moanings of the young woman beneath him. He worked in another inch.

Lana screamed, attempting to push him away … anything to ease the pain. But she succeeded only in aiding the man in his onward and inward conquest. Bright spots of blood dotted the whiteness of sheet beneath her nakedness.

The medallion between her sweaty breasts glowed faintly.

Falcon bent his head to touch his lips to hers. "Only a bit more, my dear, and then you will begin to enjoy our afternoon's tete-a-tete."

He hunched and she screamed.

There is, Falcon mused with a smile, nothing so lovely as a young lady receiving her first taste of cock … especially if the cock is large enough to produce wails of pain.

Lana bit her lip and wept in pain.

On his knees, Falcon's hands on her hips, he pulled her to him, savoring her pleas for mercy. With one savage hunching motion, he finally pulled her to him, impaling her to the full extent as his eyes drank in her nakedness, enjoying her pain. He allowed her to rest for a moment as he viewed her.

Her once shiny blond hair was now matted from perspiration-induced pain; a trickle of sweat ran from her pulsing throat between her breasts. And such lovely breasts, he thought. High and firm and tipped with delicate roses. Ah, youth, he mused, fleeting and fickle in its brevity. Such a pity it is wasted on the young.

He said, "Did you know, my dear—of course not, how could you—that I had the largest cock in all of Paris?"

"Take it out!" she screamed.

"Is it hurting you?" Falcon smiled.

"Yes!"

"Good." His smile widened. "It has been said that pain serves to enhance pleasure."

That said, Falcon withdrew from her and with one brutal thrust, rammed his thick length home.

Her screams echoed about the cabin in the woods.

That done, pleasured by her pain, Falcon began making love to her, gently, allowing her cunt to adjust to him, allowing the juices within her to flow, and it was not long before pleasure overwhelmed pain, and she began to whimper under a shivering climax.

"Do you love my Master?" Falcon asked.

"Yes!" she hissed.

Falcon settled into the rhythm that has become the oldest introduction of the species … and the most pleasurable, and Lana groaned her welcome.

"Any other God but mine is shit, Lana," he said.

"Yes," was her reply. "The Christian God is shit!"

At his promptings, Lana repeated more damning words, the medallion between her breasts glowing its approval as more blasphemies rolled from her mouth, the words becoming filthy in content, raw obscenities from the lips of youth, from a heart now blackened forever by the soot from the ever-smoking pits of Hell. Her hands rubbed his naked flesh, taking pleasure and comfort from the hot flesh, working their way down his flat belly, into his hairy crotch, her fingers gently touching the beginnings of his thick root, now slick from her own juices.

And as he drove into her, each thrust a hammer blow of male density, roughly caressing the silkiness of female inner heat, the words from her mouth increased in number and profane impiety, until the room filled with the radiance from the medallion.

They thrashed on the damp sheets, each seeking -release, while Falcon encouraged Lana's verbal garbage, prompting her, pushing her past the point of no return, searing her flesh and filling her heart with painless invisible burning coals from his Master's kingdom in the netherworld.

"Fuck God!" she screamed, as Falcon's meat of the Devil, a gift from the Dark One plummeted home. "All praise the Lord of Flies."

"I am his," Falcon urged.

"I am his!" she screamed.

And Falcon gently sank his teeth into her neck, painlessly sipping a few drops of her. And she was his. Not of this world. An event that Falcon had discreetly failed to mention would occur.

FIFTEEN

"We'll have a full twenty-four hours to gather strength for the ordeal facing us," Sam said, the words seeming to leap from his mouth, as if a separate brain had taken full control.

"Why?" Nydia asked. "How do you know that?"

"Someone is telling me these things. And I don't feel inclined to question the source. Sunday is the one day the forces of Black Magic, Od, Satanists, whatever you choose to call them, can't move. Supposedly," he put a disclaimer on that. "That is God's day, and we'll probably be left alone." He fell moodily silent for a few moments.

"What are you thinking, Sam? I can't quite read you."

"Probably the same as you: how we're going to get out of this mess; how we're going to win it."

"You mean, if we're going to win it."

His eyes became alive with a fever she had never before witnessed. "No. Nydia, not if. We can't have doubts— ever. The instant we start doubting, and really dwell on those doubts, we're finished. If we start doing that, we may as well hang it up."

"I'm … not as strong as you, Sam. I'm a newcomer to all this."

"What do you think I am?" His words were spoken much more harshly than intended.

Tears touched her eyes, rolling down her cheeks. "Don't be angry with me, Sam—please? I'll do whatever you tell me to do, but you've got to help me."

He sighed, taking her hands in his. "I'm sorry I snapped, honey. I'll die for you if I have to." And she knew he meant it. "I love you, Nydia. Even though I know it's wrong, and I'll—we'll—pay for it someday. I can't deny my love for you any more than I could deny my love and faith for the Lord God."

"Roma was right, you know. Our love is wrong, and God won't have it; He won't allow it to go unpunished."

"Let's get out of this … mess first," he said grimly. "Then we'll worry about that."

"Worry about that tomorrow?" She forced a smile. "But where is Tara, Sam?"

"Wherever we choose to make it, honey. And we will make it—together."

"Promise me?"

"Yes." He spoke with renewed faith, renewed hope. "Yes, I promise."

They wanted very badly to kiss, but both held their emotions in check. She pulled her hands from his and stood up, walking across the carpet to her room, picking up the Bible along the way. "I'm going to study this for a while, Sam."

He could but nod his approval.

The crowds of Devil worshipers in Whitfield paraded up and down in front of Miles' home, shouting filthy words and making obscene gestures. But no one dared to violate the space guarded by the huge Clay Man, and the golem would not venture past the front yard. It was a stand-off.

"Around back,'' Jean Zagone suggested to her foreman. "We'll keep that fuckin' monster occupied here; you take some people around to the back of the house. Quietly now. Try to take them alive for some fun.''

The foreman, Jake, nodded his approval. "I'll get in my pickup, pretend like I'm leavin'. That ought to throw 'em off some. Then I'll circle 'round back, pickin' up some guys I know along the way."

"Go. Get some men you can depend on, Jake."

"You can depend on me, baby."

Jean watched his slender ass as he walked away. Jake was one of the heaviest-hung cowboys she had ever known, and she reckoned she had fucked about half the men in the county. But Jake was pure randy, and wasn't nothing he wouldn't do; nothing too kinky for ol' Jake. And he was mean and about half crazy, to boot. And he sure liked to fuck.

Jake had told her any number of times over the years, way back when they was just gettin' this Coven started, that he sure would like to shove the meat to Jane Ann; either end, didn't make no difference to him.

Jean had promised him he could have Jane Ann. That had got him so turned on she had to suck him off right then and there. Damn cock so big she couldn't hardly get it in her mouth. Cummed all over her.

Jake located several of the Coven's good old boys and together they eased around to the back of Miles' house, as furtively as possible. The golem was standing impassively in the front yard, making no move toward the street. Jake knew that to attempt to shoot the goddamned thing was useless: he had personally pumped a full clip of .308s into the fuckin' thing and hadn't even staggered it; the slugs just bounced off, one of them hitting one of his own people on the ricochet. Jake didn't know where the Clay Man had come from, but he damn sure didn't want any truck with it, not after seeing it rip off both arms of man with no more effort than if he'd been lifting a soft titty to squeeze.

Jake shook his head; have to quit thinkin' 'bout pussy, he cautioned himself. Ain't had none in two days, and that wasn't good for a man: man ought to wet his dauber every day—twice a day if he could find a hole to stick it in. He sneered as he thought of Jane Ann. Now that was gonna be some prime fuckin'. Prissy little psalm-singin' bitch. So damn high and mighty when everybody knew she was fuckin' that preacher fellow, Balon, way back then, and them not even married, or nothing. Bet her eyes will pop when I shove my meat to her, Jake thought, grinning. Got to be close to 45 years old and still looks good enough to eat.

They were back of the house, squatting down behind a line of hedge, watching for anything out of the ordinary. They saw nothing to alarm them.

"Jew boy so sure his God's gonna take care of them they ain't even guardin" the back," Boo said.

"Stupid fuckers," Clint agreed. "Come on, let's take 'em. I wanna see that Jew bitch squall when we pour gasoline on her and set her afire."

But Jake was too old a hand to be sucked into something this obvious. And since he didn't particularly care for either Clint or Boo, he said, "You boys git on up there. Me and Link'll stay back a piece, keep a good eye on your back trail."

The two overanxious members of Zagone's Coven nodded their heads in eager agreement. They ran across the yard. They made it to the back porch steps before two shotguns blasted, the slugs from one catching Boo in the face, blowing his head apart. The other blast hitting Clint in the center of his chest, flinging him backward. He died as he hit the ground.

"I didn't figure they was that dumb," Jake said, fingering the medallion that hung around his neck. "Come on. I got me an idea."

Jean wasn't surprised to hear their attempt to rush the house had failed. Things were not going as planned. Not at all. "What's your idea, Jake?"

"Simple," the foreman said. "Burn 'um out."

Gasoline was found, Molotov cocktails made. The first firebomb exploded in the hands of its preparer; the second and third ones bounced off the house and went out. The fourth and fifth bombs were picked up by the Clay Man and hurled back at the crowd, badly burning one man and blinding another.

"Enough!" the Prince of Darkness hurled his command into the brain of Jean Zagone. "It is as I thought: useless. Let them be."

And the Dark One knew then his attempts to wrest, the town of Whitfield from the hands of God and build a Coven there were doomed to failure. The Almighty Meddler had allowed him to waste his time here for more than twenty years, knowing all along He would not allow the final act.

The Dark One brooded, his thoughts more savage than usual. He searched the Heavens for some sign of his lifelong foe, but He was not to be found.

Could it be, Satan mused, could it be true, that He really did retire into His firmament? But why would He do such a thing?

The Dark One could find no logical reason for such silly behavior on His part. There were reasonably innocent people in this miserable village . . . well, not really innocent, he amended that … but He had not—so far—interfered with their taking; their torture; their rape; their degradation.

Why?

Why would He save only the Jew and Jewess, and those silly Gentiles? Satan could not believe He would allow the torture and rape of Jane Ann simply to test Sam Balon … or would He? No, that might be it in part, but there was more to this. The Prince of Rats knew that God sometimes acted in mysterious ways, but this was erratic even for Him. It made no sense.

And Satan knew something else: he was having to work too hard here to accomplish so little. If he accomplished anything at all, he added.

No … something was amiss. There had to be more to it for Him to behave so strangely.

The Lord of Pus looked upward and roared: "Star-Wart? Answer me, you bastard!"

But there was no reply from the firmament.

The King of Shit howled and screamed his displeasure, vending his anger, fouling the Heavens with profanity, daring the Mighty of the Mighty to give him a reply. And the Beasts around The Digging huddled in their caves, shaking with fear, for they sensed doom. They had been the first to sense it, for they were much more animal than human, and could feel with a perception that humans did not possess that it would rain, snow, the ground tremble, the sky produce hail, and when things were going badly for their kind.

And they were afraid.

Jane Ann looked at the mist of Balon and asked, "Will they come for me this night, Sam?"

"No. It will be near the end."

"And they will have me … ?"

"About thirty hours."

"And then?"

"It will be over for you on earth."

"And we will leave together?"

"Yes."

"Miles and Doris, Wade and Anita with us?"

"Yes."

She rose to get his Bible and opened it to one of the psalms she had been reading. "I wish it was over," she said.

"We can't get out!" a Coven member told Jean, near hysteria in her voice. "Everywhere we turn, we're blocked."

" 'At's right," another member said drunkenly. "We done been ever' where in this part of Fork, down ever' road. We blocked in and shut out."

"Blocked by what?" Jean almost screamed the question.

"Nothing."

"Nothing! Damnit, that doesn't make any sense. What the shit do you mean: nothing?"

"There's something there, but you can't see it. It's invisible, but it's solid. Like a big bubble. You can feel it, but you can't see it. And it slopes upward, real gentle like, just enough where you can't get no purchase on it. And we seen two or three out-of-staters drive right through it, but when we run over there, it was closed to us. And them people in the cars didn't pay us no mind at all. It's like we was invisible, or something."

"That's right," the mayor of Whitfield said. He, like the others, was filthy, his clothing reeking from sex and sin and death. He was unshaven, and his breath and body stank. "We're trapped in here, Zagone, trapped like rats in a barrel. What's going on?" he screamed, his fear becoming contagious, touching others of the Coven.

"Now, just calm down," Jean said soothing them. "The Master will take care of us. He promised he would; hasn't he always?"

So far, they all agreed.

"All right, I'll speak with him. For now, you people relax. Go get one of those not of us and crucify them—have some fun. Everything will be all right. You'll see."

Her smile and words seemed to placate them, and they went into town, to find another luckless, hapless so-called Christian; they had all had such fun listening to them scream while they tortured them, raped them, nailed them to roughmade crosses. Selected areas of the town were dotted with crosses, with naked tortured bodies dangling from the towers of pain.

The men and women who still screamed out their lives were dying wondering why … just because they had cheated a little bit in business, here and there; just because they had professed to be Christians and had secretly or openly held hate in their hearts for niggers, Jews, spics, greasers, Indians … that shouldn't mean they should have to die this horribly … should it? Just because they had lied in their hearts while they prayed to Him, knowing they were lying all the time … that wasn't enough to warrant this … was it?

Just because they had enjoyed browbeating employees and cheating on income tax and palming a few bucks a day from their employers and every now and then getting in a quick fuck from their neighbor's wife or husband or secretly getting together with the boys to watch a fuck movie. … That wasn't enough of a sin to warrant this awfulness … was it?

After all, hadn't they gone to church every Sunday, just like the Bible instructed them to do? Hadn't they tithed like He asked them to do? Well … maybe not ten percent, but shit, in this day and time, that's just not reasonable. I mean, a fellow has Country Club dues and the whole family has to have a new wardrobe every year for every season and everybody's got to have their own car and bass boat and RV and all that, right? I mean, it's tough about all them starving kids in the world, but … that ain't my problem. Is it?

And didn't we pray for forgiveness every time we fell from grace and fucked the secretary or screwed the boss? Sorry it was an every week arrangement … but a guy or a gal's got a right to get a little strange cock or cunt every now and then … right?

But I guess, looking back over our lives, we really didn't try very hard to maintain His standards, His way. His rules, His teachings.

Maybe we did deserve all this.

The invisible barrier around Whitfield and parts of Fork County didn't upset Mephistopheles; there was no barrier he could not penetrate—except Heaven, and he certainly had no wish to go there. And the fact that he knew he was going to lose in this locale did not bother him very much … not really: he had lost before and would again. These ignorant, stupid, greedy, vain, petty, grasping mortals were all his anyway … no matter what took place during their short squirt of breathing life … most of them were too ignorant to understand that. No, what really bothered the Prince of Foulness was that he just could not understand why He was doing this. It was almost as if He had made up His mind to give up on the human race … end the game.

But Satan knew that wasn't true, knew they had a few more years in contest ahead of them. No, He wasn't yet ready to end the game and sear the world with nuclear fusion. This world. The game, the Foul One knew, had many millennia left; other worlds yet to experience his and His warfare; thousands of creatures left to yet develop into thinking beings, for now, though, as yet undeveloped enough to make the choice between darkness and light. Truth and lies. Beauty and ugliness.

No, Apollyon sighed, the sigh producing a great wind that raked the barren rolling hills around Fork County … no, that was not it. And then the Dark One decided, as he had done so many times in the past, that he really didn't know what motivated Him; what caused Him to accept one human being and reject another. His philosophy was so complicated … so simple, Satan corrected his thinking, to make it appear confusing.

Well, the Foul One concluded: so much for Whitfield. His enemy had won again. But, his smile was all things evil, there was still Falcon House, and even should I lose there, I will not lose entirely, for the witch was ready to make her move, to give him a demon child; the warlock ready to make his move, to give him another demon child, and he had more souls for the pits. So, all in all, it had not been an entirely fruitless pursuit. No, not at all. I'll leave these fools and twits to their own cunning here in this wretched village. Go to Falcon House, see how I may be of assistance there.

There was always tomorrow.

SIXTEEN

Neither Sam nor Nydia encountered many Coven members on this, the Lord's Day. Those they did see walked with quick, furtive steps, shifty, hurriedly averted eyes, and slumped shoulders, as if expecting a sudden blow from behind.

"Sam?" Nydia asked, as they had breakfast alone in the large dining room. "Wouldn't this be the day to defeat them?"

"It would seem so," the young man replied. "But the feeling isn't right. I'm not supposed to start yet. I don't believe the period of testing is over … for me."

She accepted that without question. "Why … are they so … I don't know … afraid, I guess is the right word?"

"You mean today?"

She nodded.

"God's day, honey. We're safe, comparatively speaking, that is. But some warning voice … no, that's not true, not a voice, a sense, I guess, deep inside me, tells me to be on guard, for this is their territory, not ours."

"Or His," Nydia said.

"Yes."

She looked up, sudden fear in her eyes.

"What's wrong?"

"Falcon and Roma coming toward us."

"Hell with them."

"Apt choice of words," she said, smiling.

The witch and warlock stopped at the buffet line to fill their plates, then walked to the table, Falcon smiling, saying, "I know you young people won't object if we join you."

"Not at all." Sam returned the smile. "We were just about to say a morning prayer for thanks." He pointed upward. "To Him."

"How disgusting!" Roma said.

"Go right ahead," Falcon said. "But you will understand if we don't join in?"

Sam bowed his head and Nydia followed suit, not knowing what her young man was going to do. She didn't even know if Sam knew a morning prayer of thanks.

Sam, with his head bowed, hiding his smile, said, "Dee Dee, Ta Ta."

Falcon and Roma looked at each other. "Is that some kind of a joke?" she asked.

"No," Sam said. "When I was just learning to talk, really before I could pronounce words, after Mother or Dad would say the prayer, I'd always say that. Our God is listening, and He knows what I said, and meant."

Roma sat down. "And you people call us weird." She buttered a piece of toast, nibbled at it, then said, "Have either of you given any more thought to what we discussed last evening?"

"The answer is no, Roma," Nydia said, and she was conscious of Sam looking at her through eyes of love and respect.

"Nydia," Falcon said, "have you considered this: how do you know you will be accepted into His flock; His hand of protection? Think about it. You have not been properly baptized; you do not know the Bible and nothing of His teachings. Aren't you taking a chance, my dear?"

"Yes," she surprised him with her reply, "and I've given that a great deal of thought. But our answer is still no. I've been reading Sam's Bible, and it says: 'God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.' Now ... I don't know, really, how that should be interpreted, but I read it to mean that if a person believes in Jesus and the Father, and tries real hard to do what is right, to be a good person, well … everything's going to be all right. I may be wrong. I hope not."

Sam gently squeezed her fingers in support.

"How touching," Roma said dryly, observing the gesture of love.

"Shut up, darling," Falcon told her, and this time she heard a distinct note of warning in his voice. She closed her mouth. Falcon said, "Is there no way we can reach a compromise?"

"No," Sam said, flatly rejecting the offer.

"He's just like his father," Roma blurted. "Hard-headed as a goat."

"And very proud to be," Sam said, smiling.

Roma nodded her head; the extent to which she agreed with Sam was impossible to tell from the curt gesture.

Falcon's eyes were hard as he looked at Nydia. "My dear, you can make this enjoyable, or very unpleasant … when the time comes. I suggest you think about it."

"I don't know what you mean," she replied.

Falcon's smile was evil. He pointed to his crotch. "You and I, dear."

She shook her head slowly.

"The same applies to you, Sam," Roma said.

"Sorry," the young man told her. "I think I'll pass." He had no way of knowing his mother had spoken those same words to Roma more than twenty years before, referring to Black Wilder's offer.

"A lot of your mother in you, too, darling," Roma said with a nasty grin. "And your mother is going to have a lot in her before all this is over. Do pardon the slight pun, won't you?"

Sam shot visual daggers of hate at the witch.

"Do either of you realize," Falcon said, "how hopelessly outnumbered you are? How puny your powers are compared with ours? And how foolish you are to reject this offer of compromise?"

Sam and Nydia merely looked at him, saying nothing.

"We really are not obligated to abide by any rules," Falcon confided in them. "Believe that. The only reason we are here is to give you young people a chance to come to your senses."

"He is not lying," the heavy voice said as it sprang into Sam's head. "You may accept the offer from the devil's agent and become one of the undead. There will be no more trials and tests should that be your decision. The choice is yours."

"Tested by both God and Satan?" Sam flung the silent question. "How much is to be placed on my shoulders, and when does it end?"

But the mysterious voice was silent.

Both Roma and Falcon were once again aware of the strange power in the room, neither of them understanding it.

"Your decision, young man?" Falcon urged.

"Go to hell!" Sam told him.

Both Roma and Falcon laughed, Falcon saying, "Oh, we've been there, many times. Even at its best, it is a dismal place."

"Then we'll do our best to avoid it." Sam locked eyes with the man.

"Very well," Roma said. "1 would suggest the both of you enjoy your . . . day of rest." Both she and the warlock laughed.

The witch and the warlock vanished before their eyes, leaving behind them a foul odor of sulfur.

Nydia's hand covered Sam's fingers and he gently squeezed it. "It'll be all right," he said.

A different odor covered the departing smell of Roma and Falcon. This one was hideous, stinking of stale blood and rotting flesh, of the grave and beyond.

Nydia looked up, her nose wrinkling at the smell. Her eyes widened, face paling. She began to scream.

Sam started to turn around, to see what Nydia was viewing. Something savage smashed into his head and he fell, tumbling into painful darkness.

"They have all withdrawn from sight," Wade said, putting down the shotgun. He was very tired, and he had left his bifocals at home, having to make do with an old, inadequate pair of glasses he kept in the glove compartment for emergencies.

"They have withdrawn—period," Miles said. He put his shotgun on a table, Doris frowning as the front sight scarred the polished wood. But she said nothing to her husband of oh-so-many years. Good years … all of them. No regrets.

And she was sorry she had called him a klutz so many times over those years. But even with that feeling of love and penitence, she had to smile. Miles was clumsy … always had been. She said prayers even when he tried such a simple task as changing a light bulb. Especially if he had to stand on a stepladder. For if he didn't fall off the ladder, he would always manage to drop one of the bulbs; usually the good one.

But she loved him, loved him with all her heart: he was such a good, decent man. Just like Wade, but in a completely different way. Both of them were honest, decent, and Godfearing, helpful to people in need, no matter what race or religion. She sighed in remembrance.

She turned her attentions back to the men, who were, as usual, arguing.

"… in hell do you know that?" Wade was saying.

"I know. I feel it. Something drastic has happened. You wait, you'll see. Sam will tell you I'm right."

"He is right." Balon's voice jarred them all.

They still could not accustom themselves to Balon's sudden appearances.

Balon said: "They will not be back here. Ever. They will come for Jane Ann on the night before their final night on earth."

"And us?" Miles asked hopefully. One could always keep a bit of optimism that The Man might change His mind.

"We will exit this life together."

Miles muttered something inaudible to human ears.

"I heard that," Balon said.

"So sue me," Miles replied.

"What about him? It?" Doris pointed toward the front steps, at the golem sitting hugely, impassively.

"He requires no aid, no comfort, no food or water—he is all those things. He will sit thusly until he is needed. When he is done with here, he will return to the river."

"I feel sorry for him," Anita said.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, honey," Wade said. "He's made of clay; he has no emotions, no feelings, no concept of what a human experiences. And I still don't believe he's really here."

"Don't blaspheme," Miles said quickly. "Now is not the time. Just accept."

Balon spoke to Wade: "You are wrong. God breathed life into him, so he does have feelings. He has feelings of protectiveness toward the four of you. But since he has no tongue, he cannot express them. Since he has no eyes, he cannot see you—as you know vision—so you cannot see his feelings. But that is just as well. Doris would probably have had him in for coffee and cake."

"And didn't I have you in often enough for cake and coffee?" Doris challenged the mist. "I committed some sin by doing that? You ate like a horse, Sam Balon."

"Doris!" Miles was appalled. "You hush up that kind of talk. Don't you know who you're talking to?"

"I'm talking to Sam Balon the same way I always talked to Sam Balon. And I'll speak the same way when we get to … wherever it is we're going."

"I never heard of such disrespect for the … excuse me, Sam … dead," Miles said. "Sam—why? Why did they pull back?"

"Because Satan knows he is beaten here."

"But people are still being raped and tortured and tormented and dying," Wade said.

"That is true."

"Why?"

"I do not question the will of God."

"Will we get a chance to ask Him?" Wade persisted.

The hollow voice that was Balon chuckled, then projected: "I think you're in for a surprise, Wade."

"What do you mean, preacher?"

"You'll see."

"Janey?" Anita asked.

"She is well."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know. She has an ordeal ahead of her. A terrible one. But she will endure."

"You can't know that for certain, Sam," Doris said.

"I know."

Then the voice faded and the house was still.

Sam's head hurt, throbbing with pain. The side of his head was sticky. He put his fingertips to his head and gingerly touched the aching. His fingers came away sticky. He touched his head again, exploring the wetness, finding a small cut just above his ear.

Groaning, he attempted to sit up in the darkness. He made it on the second attempt, rested for a moment, then got slowly to his feet, swaying in the darkness of the … he looked around him … of the what? Where was he?

As his eyes began to penetrate some of the gloom ground him, he could tell he was in a large room. A damp basement, he concluded. He stood very still, attempting to get his bearings. He was confused: Roma had assured them no physical action would be taken until Thursday night.

"And of course you believed her." The mysterious voice ripped into his aching head. "Words from the Devil's whore? How typically mortal."

Sam's temper flared. "Sermons I don't need. If you knew she wasn't to be trusted, why didn't you tell me?"

"You are your father's son."

"I'm getting a little tired of hearing that, too, Mr. whoever-you-are."

The powerful, awesome voice chuckled, and Sam could hear the rumblings of nearby thunder.

"Nydia!" He remembered her screaming. "Where is she?"

"Never take anything for granted," the voice said.

"What!"

"Do not trust them further. For as it is written: he knoweth that he hath but a short time."

"All I asked was a reasonably simple question. Why are you giving me such a bad time with all these riddles?"

"Oh, but I don't speak in riddles. It is only that you interpret my words as puzzles. But bear this in mind: remember your father's words at the airport."

Sam's sigh was more exasperation than frustration or anger. "What words?" he asked wearily. "More riddles?"

" 'I cannot guarantee she will not be hurt. If anything, it was blessed by the Dark One.' Now go to her."

A wind blew cold through the darkness; a door banged open, dim light beyond it.

"Through that door, huh?"

"You have reservations?"

"Yeah. How do I know you're one of the good guys and not Old Scratch pulling my leg?"

And again the powerful voice chuckled. Once more, thunder rumbled overhead. "You are learning, young warrior."

Sam felt the mysterious force move away. He was alone.

He looked toward the dim light of the open door. "Oh, what the hell … heck. No! I meant hell!" He walked out of the dampness into the cold of the Canadian night. And it struck him: night! How long was I out? Hours, at least. That had to have come from more than a knock on my head.

"Witchery." That almost overpowering voice cut into his head.

"Thanks." Sam's reply was dry. He spoke as he walked around the huge mansion, searching for a door. "Tell me: Are you here to help me, or just to bug me?"

"Bug?"

"Annoy; harass; needle."

"Ah. I haven't as yet decided."

"You will let me know?"

"Oh, you will know, young warrior. I promise you that."

Sam stopped at a back door. "I'm going through that door; so I'll be looking forward to hearing from you again. When you decide which side you're on."

The chuckling, thundering. "Oh, I know which side, young warrior. Of that you may be certain."

"Riddles," Sam muttered. "Riddles. I don't know what I'm doing here; don't know what I'm supposed to do—not really; and don't know how I'm supposed to accomplish what it is I'm not sure I'm supposed to do. If that makes any damn sense."

Thunder rolled.

"Yeah," Sam said. "Real cute." He opened the door and stepped into the warmth of the house.

* * *

The speaker of mighty words and the producer of thunder appeared in the circle of stones behind the mansion and once more sat on a boulder. He folded his massive arms across his chest. The manlike traveler appeared to be waiting for someone.

It was not a long wait.

"Why didn't you tell the young man his young woman saw the face of the Hooved One?"

"I think he has to be tested further. But … perhaps I should have. Is that what you wish me to do?"

"A test? A painful, wicked one, Warrior. What I want you to do? I didn't want you here to begin with."

"But I am here."

"Obviously. And instead of listening to the pleas of mortals and attempting to keep shaky fingers off of buttons that would ruin the earth, I am with you wondering why my most powerful ally is sitting on a rock in a circle of stones, erected to worship Satan."

"The Foul One does not know of my presence."

"He suspects."

"Am I supposed to tremble with fear at thai knowledge?"

The Heavens rumbled with laughter. "Hardly. But at the risk of being redundant, this is not your place. I should order you away."

"If you do, I shall obey."

"Yes," the most powerful voice in all the thousands of worlds seemed to sigh. "But have I ever?"

"No."

"And so I shall not this time."

And with a rush of wind, the voice faded, leaving the mightiest of God's warriors sitting on the rock, thoughtfully stroking his beard.

Sam wandered through the huge mansion, making his way to his room, hoping he would find Nydia there. Their rooms were empty; the great house silent. As a grave. He shook that thought away.

He washed the cut on his head and applied some antiseptic to the small wound, then took several aspirin and changed clothes. He debated several moments over whether to take the .45 pistol, then shook his head and left the weapon where it was. He went in search of Nydia.

He stopped at every door, carefully looking in every room. He found no one in either the east or west wings of the mansion, on either floor. The dining area was deserted, as were the servants' quarters. That left only one place. Sam stood very still in the foyer, listening for the sound that had stopped him in his search. There it was again. Organ music.

He listened to the faint but unmistakable sounds of funeral music, somber and low, coming from up above him.

"Funeral music?" he said. "Who died?" And then panic hit him hard. What was it the voice had said, speaking in riddles, repeating his father's words: I cannot guarantee she will not be hurt.

"Nydia!" Sam said, running toward the curving stairway, taking the steps two at a time, running for the third floor of the mansion, the music becoming louder with each step, heard over the hammering of Sam's heart and the blood rushing hotly through his veins. "Nydia," he whispered. "Nydia!"

He flung open each door he came to, with each room yielding the same: nothing. He stopped in the center of the dimly lighted hall, staring at the open, yawning door at the end of the hall. Flickering candlelight danced deceptively from the room, and a heady, not unpleasant East Indian essence drifted from the gloom. The music became louder, but this time it was accompanied by the sounds of soft weeping, from a number of people.

Sam walked toward the open double doors, the scent of incense growing stronger with his faltering reluctant footsteps. He stopped just inside the door, just as the gloom and the music and the sweet odor of musk and jasmine enveloped him.

He cut his eyes to the candlelit scene at the end of the long narrow room. A coffin, lid open, rested on a bier, on deep black velvet. The body that lay with its hands folded across its stomach was pale, the lips bloodless. It took but one look to tell there was no life left within the beautiful corpse, or who it was lying there.

Nydia.

SEVENTEEN

Sam's fragile world spun madly for a few seconds, almost dropping him to the carpet. He maintained control, rubbing his face with shaky, sweaty hands. He took several steps closer to the casket, nearer to the dreaded sight, hoping all this was some awful joke. It was not. Nydia was dead.

Roma and Falcon came to his side. He looked at them closely: their faces were pale and drawn, with real worry lines creasing their brows.

Sam touched Nydia's hand. Cold and dead. He withdrew his fingers.

"We are sorry," Falcon said, his voice deep and sepulchral.

"Yes," Roma echoed his sentiments. "Even though we … are worlds apart in worshiping Masters, she was my daughter, from my womb, and I loved her, in my own strange way."

"How … ?" Sam started to ask.

"Time enough for that," Falcon verbally restrained him. "But suffice to say, we had nothing to do with Nydia's … untimely demise. And we both beg you to believe that."

"But you were going to kill us both!" Sam protested, once more touching Nydia's cold flesh. He shuddered.

"So how can you expect me to believe you had nothing to do with … this?"

They gently led him from the scene of tragic young death.

"Oh, no, no," Roma objected. "No … those were hollow threats … only that, nothing more. We wanted you both on our side … worshiping our Master, but by all that you believe in, do you think I would plot the death of my own daughter? My own flesh and blood? How ghastly, Sam! Cajole, threaten, bluff … and yes, I will admit it, even rape … but death? No, Sam … no."

"Ridiculous!" Falcon's look was both stern and filled with sorrow, perhaps even a touch of outrage at such a suggestion.

Across the room, and on both sides, the chairs were filled with Coven members, but they did not at all resemble the men and women Sam had witnessed prior to this; none of them wore the arrogance previously exhibited on their faces. Jimmy Perkins broke into wracking sobs; soon others joined him, the sounds of weeping almost drowning out the soft, sad music.

"You look exhausted, Sam," Falcon said. Roma put a soft, perfumed hand on the young man's arm. "Let my wife get you some coffee, something to eat, perhaps, and you can tell us where you've been for hours."

"You don't know?" Sam asked.

"No," her reply was open and honest. Sam searched her face for a sign of a lie, but could find none. "How could we know?"

"But you people did that!" he almost shouted the words, pointing toward the open casket.

Her face registered her shock. "No, Sam ... we didn't. Falcon was telling the truth. We did not. But our Master did."

"Satan?"

"That … pig!" Roma spat the word with such venomous hatred Sam was stunned. She spoke it as if clearing her mouth of something nasty.

"But he is your God, your Master," Sam said. "How can you call him a pig?"

"He may or may not be our Master," Falcon injected. "That is something we both want to speak to you about. But first," he sighed, "I must go offer my apologies to Nydia. Whether she can hear them or not, it is something I must do." He walked to the casket and gazed down at the face of death. There were tears rolling down his cheeks. Genuine tears.

"I … don't understand," Sam said.

"Is it too late for us?" Roma asked, all the while gently leading the young man to a room off the large mourning room. There she sat him on a couch and shut the door behind her, blocking out all sounds of the weeping, the sad melodious notes of the organ; only the soft scent of incense remained.

"All that," Roma flung her arm toward the door and the scene behind it, "has come home to us, Sam. Reluctantly, at first, I have to admit it, but finally with more conviction than I have felt in … well, might as well be truthful, hundreds of years. I began to admire your God."

Sam stood up. "This is a trick!" He turned to leave the room.

The sounds of Roma's weeping stopped him. He turned, real tears were streaming from her eyes. "Oh, Sam, I'm so confused. I don't know what to do, where to turn. None of us do. Do you think we would be, to a person, weeping and mourning if we did not feel a terrible sense of loss and of guilt over this tragedy? We have spoken of nothing else for hours: repentance, the coldbloodedness of the creature we worshiped, yes, even admired for centuries. We want," she sighed, "… out."

Sam returned to his seat on the couch, beside Roma. "I don't know what I can do."

"Nydia said you took her into the arms of your God. Can't you do the same for us?"

"Baptize you?"

"If that is what it takes, yes."

"You would have to renounce all other gods, and you would have to be sincere in that renunciation, for my God can see into your hearts."

"I know," she said softly. "And for Falcon and myself, and a few of the others, it would mean instant death. We are willing to do that."

"Death?"

"Yes, Sam Balon King. The instant holy water touches the flesh of a witch, warlock, or the undead, we die."

"You're willing to go that far?"

"Yes," the softly spoken one-word condemnation touched him as might a velvet-encased hand gripping his heart.

He cut his eyes to the door. "You've discussed this with all the people out there?"

"Every one of them, Sam. That is how severely this … tragedy has touched us all."

"I just can't believe it," Sam leaned back in the couch, closing his eyes. 'This is just too much … too much in one day." Test her, the thought came to him, but it was his thought, and not spoken from any outside source. He rose from the couch. "I'll be back in ten minutes. Who wants to be baptized first?"

Her smile was warm and sincere. "Anyone in that room.

"The line on the east wall, the third person from the end."

"As you wish, Sam."

He went to his room and filled a small bottle with blessed water from a church in Montreal. A member of the Coven sat beside Roma when Sam returned to the room, one of the newer members from New York. He smiled at Sam.

"I don't know all the right words," Sam told him. "But maybe this will work. You're sure you want to go through with this?"

"I am certain."

"This is no guarantee you'll get into Heaven," Sam told him.

"It's a guarantee that I will die, however," the man said gently.

Sam glanced at Roma. She smiled sadly. "I told you we were all sincere." She rose from the couch to stand beside Sam.

Sam looked at the man, sitting quietly before him. Sam sighed, and said, "Lord, I believe this man is sincere, and asking You to help him. I … don't know what else to say." He wet his fingers with holy water and touched them to the man's forehead.

The man recoiled backward in pain, his flesh bubbling as the blessed liquid ate into his face. The man began a series of regression, as his body flew back in time. A horrid stench filled the room. Soon there was nothing but a pile of rotting rags on the floor in front of the sofa.

Sam stood, stunned by it all.

Roma gently led him across the room, to another couch. "This is going to be a terrible ordeal for you, Sam. I think you had better have some coffee, a sandwich before you continue."

"Yes," he said. "You're right. Please, that would be nice."

He must have dozed for a few moments, for when he opened his eyes, Roma was beside him on the couch, smiling at him. Sam thought he had never seen such a sad, tender smile in his life. On a coffee table, a small steaming pot of coffee, two cups, and a thick sandwich.

"Eat," she urged him, pouring the cups full of rich-smelling coffee. "Then we'll talk about your God.

"This is not a dream?"

"No, Sam. It's very real. And in case you think the food or drink is drugged, choose what cup you want and give me any part of the food."

He shook his head. "I believe you." He looked at the pile of rags across the room. "After that."'

The sandwich was delicious, the coffee as good as the first cup he'd had in the dining area of the mansion—it seemed so long ago. He listened to Roma speak, her words tearing at him as he suspected they were to her.

"Satan broke all the rules, coming here, speaking to us. He told us he would no longer abide by any rules of the game."

"The game?" Sam questioned.

"Of course, it's a game, Sam. A game between the two mightiest players in all the universe. This universe and all the others. A game they have been playing for thousands of years."

"A game," Sam said dully.

"A very ugly game, and a very profane one. The Foul One returned, appearing behind you. He is seldom seen in. his natural form—even by us. He is … grotesque, hideous. His very presence often kills should human eyes fall on his ugliness. Nydia's did."

Sam touched the side of his head. "Who hit me?"

"The Dark One. He is everywhere at once, as is your—my God, I hope. Sam?" she leaned forward until her face was only a few inches from his. "Will you teach me how to pray to your God before you baptize me?"

"If … you would like that, sure."

"Oh, yes, I would like that. More than anything in this world, for I know my time remaining is very short, and growing shorter."

"My God might …"

"No," she shushed him, placing a soft finger to his lips. "I know things you do not. Now finish your sandwich, Sam, and then teach me how to pray." Sam finished the hefty sandwich and drank another cup of coffee. "I feel so guilty, Roma, sitting here eating while … she is …" He could not bring himself to say the word: dead.

"Don't be," she slipped a bit closer to him. "Do you think Nydia would want that?"

"No, I suppose not. You're right, of course. She would be happy for you. Is Satan still here?"

^"He is everywhere."

"That's not what I meant."

"1 know. Yes, I can feel his presence. He is furious, but unable to do anything about his anger—at this time. You see, Sam, by merely talking with you about … our decision to reject Satan and accept your God … well, that puts the Dark One in a very bad position. Now he can't make any moves against you; all his earthly allies—that is, we at Falcon House—have switched sides, and the Prince is fearful of your God's powers should he break any more rules."

"It's all very confusing, Roma. But I'm happy for you, if you're sincere, and I believe you are." Sam waited for the mysterious voice to hammer at his brain, but his head remained free of any silent vocal intrusion.

"I don't resent your doubts, Sam," she said, moving a bit closer to him. He was suddenly very much aware of the woman heat of her. "Of course you have suspicions, why shouldn't you?"

The perfume she wore was a scent Sam had never smelled before: very pleasant, not too heady, not too light. And as it assailed his nostrils, the essence seemed to relax the young man, wrapping him in fragrant invisible arms.

"You're very tired, Sam," he heard her say. He nodded his head in agreement as fatigue hit him hard. "Why don't you sleep for a while? The rest will do you good."

Sam struggled to remember why he was here, but his mind drew a blank. He could but vaguely remember soft music and the scent of lighted candles and incense. Everything was blocked out of his mind. What does it matter? he thought, as arms of incredible sweetness and softness slipped around him, cradling him gently.

"Here, Sam," Roma whispered, amid the rustling of clothing, the soft snick of a clasp opening. "Rest your head here." She pulled his head to her breasts.

Somehow, Sam thought, I knew they would be bare and beautiful. He opened his eyes, no more than a slit, found the breasts to be more than beautiful: the nipples were stiff and erect, set amid half dollar sized rose-colored circles. And it seemed only natural his lips would find the papilla, encircling it. Her hands were at the back of his head, gently holding his mouth to her breast, silently encouraging the young man to suckle her as a child.

Sam felt feverish. Not the unnatural heat of sickness, but that his clothing was an encumbrance he did not need.

Here," she said, "let me help you." Her fingers worked at the buttons of his shirt, and Sam quickly felt coolness of air on his bare arms. Pillowing his head against her breasts, he could not think of one single reason why he should object as she worked at his belt buckle, loosening the snap at his waistband. The snick of the zipper followed, and he moved his legs, assisting her in the lowering of his jeans.

She held him close to her for several moments, one hand resting on his flat belly, where his T-shirt had pulled up, exposing just a few inches of bare skin.

He heard her say: "It will be wonderful, Sam. You and I, together."

"Yes," he replied, in a voice that seemed strange to him, alien, not from his larynx. He added, "At last." Although he did not know why he said that.

She moved slightly, and her skirt was gone. She was naked. Sam started to protest that this was wrong, but that strange perfume stifled any objection forming within him.

Why is it wrong? he asked himself.

"It isn't wrong," she said.

"Yes," he said. "It isn't."

Sam was conscious of cool air on his groin, but he felt it wasn't worth the effort to open his eyes and look. Then he realized his underwear shorts had been removed and that seemed all right, as well. Everything seemed all right. Natural. Perfect. A man and a woman together. He moved his head to the satiny smoothness of her naked belly and kissed the indentation of navel, aware of the woman scent of her.

She moved her hand, fingers encircling his growing thickness, stroking him into surging hardness, bringing, him, through the manipulation of her skillful touch, almost to the point of ejaculation.

Then, with one swift movement, she mounted him, laughing as she did so.

Everything returned to Sam … coming in such a rush it almost overwhelmed him with its magnitude: his father's warnings, the warnings of the mysterious voice. Nydia! her memory leaped into his brain. Where he was; what had happened; what was happening. He recalled the vision he had shared with Nydia: the scene of his father fighting with the witch … this woman who now had impaled herself on his maleness, driving her way frantically toward completion.

He began fighting the witch, attempting to dislodge her from his erection, but her strength was incredible. Despite his feelings of revulsion and self-disgust, knowing he had been tricked like a schoolboy, Sam was very close to exploding his semen into her wetness.

She held his hands to her waist with no more effort than if she were pinning a helpless baby to its crib. And despite himself, Sam felt his juices boiling. They began to spill over, then exploded. Using her inner muscles, Roma milked the last drop of precious semen from him, pulled away from him, and padded naked to a table. There, she picked up a vial of dark red fluid, opened the small bottle, and drained it into her mouth.

Sam was too weak to move as she began speaking in a language he did not understand, the incantation evil as it rolled from her tongue. Lightning licked around the mansion, as thunder ripped the countryside, the smell of burning sulfur strong in the stormy air.

Laughter reached Sam's ears, spilling from the other room. Hot, wild rage filled him, causing his blood to run strong, giving him the strength to claw on his clothing and stagger from the room where he had been seduced into an unwilling paramour.

The scene that greeted him was of the vilest imaginable: a grotesque real-life panorama more vivid than anything Hollywood could ever produce in its most brutish moods. Nydia had been lifted from the casket, pillows placed under her. She was naked, her lifeless white arms hanging over the sides of the brass entrapment. Her lovely legs spread apart, knees to feet hanging out of the casket. Falcon was between her thighs, his gross maleness erect, pumping in and out of the young woman.

Shouting his rage, Sam charged the sickness before his unbelieving eyes. He was tripped, sending him tumbling to the floor, where he was kicked and beaten into semiconsciousness. He lay bloodied on the carpet, unable to stop the hideousness taking place.

Falcon's hardness became slick with blood, and Sam could not understand that, for Nydia was dead. Then he decided in his near delirium it was not blood, merely the way the candles cast their dubious flickering light.

Nydia's head was thrown back, her mouth a black gaping hole, eyes closed in surrender on her voyage to the stygian shore.

Falcon continued to ram his maleness into her.

"Why don't you pray, mother-fucker?" a female voice screeched at Sam.

He looked up through his pain into the wild eyes of Lana, squatting half naked beside him.

Sam shook his head as the taunts began, profane and loud, exhorting him to call on his God for help. He fought to get to his feet, but hands turned into fists, pounding him back to the carpet. He watched as the ugly act of necrophilia drew closer to completion, Falcon lunging in earnest, burying his long thickness into the dead flesh of Nydia. The man howled like an animal as he ejaculated, spilling into the young woman.

Falcon arrogantly rose from the satin-lined casket like some monster from the grave, and stepped onto the floor, wiping his softening penis with a towel handed him from one of those as lost as he.

Sam put his head on the carpet and wept.

"Oh, don't be such a crybaby, Sam!" Roma's voice cut at him as a cat-o'-nine-tails would rip the flesh of its victim. "You may have her now." She raised her hand and performed a ritual that was too quick for Sam to follow.

He shifted his eyes to the sounds of someone suddenly weeping and thought he was going utterly mad as Nydia's eyes opened and she looked around her, a bewildered expression on her face, as if she not only did not understand where she was, but why she was crying. She looked down at her nakedness, then at her temporary home, and screaming joined the tears.

Roma laughed. "There is your darling, Sam. Take her, witness what marvelous parturient pops from her womb. You won't have a long wait, for when my Master takes a hand, events such as the one now growing within Nydia's womb develop rapidly, such wonders to perform. Take your darling, Sam, and both of you carry your sniveling selves from this room. So we lost a member from your application of holy water," she answered the puzzled look in his eyes. "No great loss—it is an honor to die for the Master." She cackled like the witch she was. "How does it feel to be beaten, young man and woman of God?"

The room of lost and damned souls howled with laughter.

Sam pulled himself to his knees and wiped blood from above his eyes. When he turned to look at the witch, she hissed with fright and drew back from the sight of his burning eyes. "We're not beaten, you whore. I'm whipped for now, but I'm not down for the count. I don't understand what has taken place here, for I know Nydia was dead; no one could look that dead and not be dead. I don"t know if I'll ever understand it. But I know this: for some reason you can't or won't kill us … yeah," he said slowly, his eyes shifting to Nydia. "She's got to be kept alive, right? Sure. I see that. Me … I don't know why you didn't kill me after you screwed me … maybe I'll never know. But I'm going to beat you, bitch." His eyes lashed at the witch. "Some way, somehow, I'll win this battle. Bet on it."

Sam rose to his feet and walked to the candle-lighted bier, helping Nydia to the floor. No one tried to stop him, no one attempted to interfere. Sam ripped a drape from behind the bier and wrapped it around Nydia, covering her nakedness. They walked from the room amid the jeering, ugly sounds of the Unbelievers. Party music began playing, a loud raucous noise as the people began dancing in a hunching fashion around the room, the dancing more a lewd profanity than any type of graceful movement of partners.

"Sam?" Nydia spoke in a whisper, even though the room and all the evil of its occupants was farther behind them with each step. "I was … dead!"

"I know, honey. And don't ask me to explain it, 'cause I can't.

"Sam?"

He looked at her, taking her offered hand.

"I know what you have to do."

They were on the second floor of the great house, walking down the corridor to their rooms. "What, Nydia?"

"You have to make love to me, as quickly as possible."

"I … don't understand."

"Yes, you do," the voice boomed in his head. "And may your seed be strong."

"1 heard the voice that time, Sam," she told him. "And that's why you have to make love to me."

"You remember Falcon raping you?"

"Every awful, ugly second of it. I can't explain it, for I couldn't move—not even my eyes. But I could feel pain. It's … I was dead, Sam, but I wasn't. I know my heart stopped when I looked up and saw that thing … what in God's name was that?"

"I didn't see it, but Roma said it was the Devil. I guess that much of what she said was true. Your heart stopped?"

"Yes. I came back when Falcon … began raping me. Something else, Sam."

"What?"

"I … saw you and Roma."

"But you were …"

"I know. But I could still see you both. I was so proud of you when you fought through the drug and began to resist."

"The food was drugged?"

"No. The perfume she was wearing. An ancient aphrodisiac. She stayed within the rules of the game in using it."

Sam shuddered. "A game. Like no other game in the world."

"While we're here, Sam, we're not of this world. "We're kind of in limbo."

Sam was conscious of that mighty presence near, but no voice sprang into his head. The force withdrew. At the door to their rooms, Nydia stopped him. "You take a shower, Sam. You smell like … well, like her. I've got to do something; maybe it will help."

"What?" Sam asked innocently.

She looked at him and shook her head. "Douche," she said flatly.

* * *

Sam tended to his face after the shower, applying antiseptic to the small cuts. One eye was puffy, the area under it turning a shade of greenish-blue, and there were numerous smaller bruises on his face and chest and legs. But he concluded he would live.

"How long and what for is the question," he muttered.

'How skeptical you are," the voice spoke to him. "Weren't you warned you would be tested? And wasn't it I who told you not to fear should you sometimes fail?"

"I did a pretty good job of failing this night, didn't I?" Sam said glumly.

"So did your father, but he found a place beside God."

"Am I right in doing what I'm … we're about to do?"

"I cannot answer that. That is something only you and the young woman can decide."

"What if Falcon's seed takes hold?"

"She would birth something truly awesome and terrible. Your seed within Roma was strong, and she will please her dark master."

"So I have to try and overcome Falcon's seed?"

"I told you: I cannot answer that for you."

"Why do I feel that what I'm about to do is right, but with a nagging feeling of guilt that it is somehow wrong?"

But the mighty force had gone, Sam feeling the invisible presence fade from his brain. He looked up as Nydia entered the room.

"You said we'd know His reasons for throwing us together like this, Sam. And it wouldn't be a moral question … or issue. Are we facing the real reason; doing what is right?"

"I … think so, Nydia."

She smiled. "I hate to quote an old line, Sam, but please be gentle with me. I hurt."

And he was, and they both felt their lovemaking was somehow pure, somehow sanctified. And when it was over, and they were asleep, lost in exhaustion, something entered the room, something awesome in its righteous power, and it guarded the two as they slept.

And they were truly not alone.

EIGHTEEN

Miles and Wade stepped out onto the front porch, both of them wincing as the sickly sweet odor of death struck them again, assailing their sense of smell. They had just been around to the back, dragging the bodies of the Coven members from the backyard.

"I wonder why we can't smell it in the house?" Wade asked.

Miles smiled through the awful permeation. "I would guess this house is off limits, Wade. Protected."

The golem stared mutely ahead of him, unseen eyes never leaving the perimeter it was created to protect. It took no notice of the two men.

Somewhere in the distance, a thin yowl of pain could be heard, at first only a faint howl, then gradually building into a flesh-crawling shriek that wavered its way to the ears of the two men. The painful howling would then fade into a low moan, only to build again.

"Let's go back inside," Wade suggested. "I don't believe I care to leave the house again."

"Not until Saturday night," Miles said.

The editor glanced at his lifelong friend. "And where do we go at that time, pal?"

"Home, old friend."

* * *

Nydia was the first to notice the slight odor in the room. She lay watching Sam sleep, wanting to cry at his torn and bruised face. Then she noticed the faint odor. It was not unpleasant, not at all; it was … a male odor, she eluded. But not a sexual pungency. It was more a scent of supreme strength, of confidence. And she wondered how that could be, and how she could so easily identify the aroma of it? And she wondered, too, how or why the odor would fill her with an inner calmness, a peace she had not experienced in all her life?

And she knew with only the knowledge that a woman possesses that something else had occurred, but she decided she would keep that a secret for a while longer.

She lay very still, inhaling the strength of the man scent that lingered in the room. But, she frowned, it was more than that … it was, and she hesitated to use the word … almost holy, but yet, she decided, it was not pristine in its consecration: there was a touch of the warrior with it, a tinge of worldliness, as if whatever had left the scent was not only marking territory, but telling those within that region that it knew what they were experiencing … and what they would experience in the days to come.

And Nydia thought it very strange she would know all this.

And there was something else she detected: sadness, Just a very slight trace of that, but there nonetheless. Odd, she thought: I have never been so frightened in my life, but neither have I ever felt so secure in a … what? She struggled for a definition, a word, finally settling on faith.

Yes, she smiled. Faith.

Sam stirred by her side, and she had another thought as she moved close to him, putting one arm across his bare chest, just above the burn that signified the Everlasting Cross on his flesh.

"Sam?" she whispered, her mouth close to his ear.

"Umm?" he stirred, pulling out of sleep, opening his eyes to look at her through eyes of love.

"I have an idea."

"Now?" his eyes widened.

"Oh, Sam! Not that. I want us to get married."

It took a moment for that to register with him. He finally cocked his head on the pillow and blinked rapidly several times. "Say again."

"You heard me." She lifted herself up on one elbow and stared down at him, thick strands of long silken hair shading one side of her face.

"Nydia … I mean, how? Who would perform the ceremony? I really doubt we could leave this house … or at least the immediate grounds. We'd have to leave …"

She shushed him with a soft kiss. "They have JPs in your country that marry people; judges and the like. They aren't ministers, so what makes them any better than you?"

"Me! This is weird, Nydia. And certainly illegal."

"I'm not concerned with moral law, Sam. And I'm really not sure it would be acceptable in the eyes of God—probably not. I just want the words, from you and from me … from out of our hearts. So let's get cleaned up, get dressed, and go into the timber and get married. Now!"

Sam knew, with only the knowledge reasonably intelligent men possess concerning their limited understanding of women, that it would be best not to argue. Just get up and follow orders.

He is pleased,"' Roma spoke to Falcon over coffee in her quarters. "Our Master said he was most happy with the way matters are proceeding."

"Are you with child?"

"Yes. I can feel the demon growing."

"When will you birth?"

"On the sixth day of the sixth week, precisely on the sixth hour."

"How prophetic. The Mark of the Beast. 666. And your chances, my dear?"

"None. I will die for the Master; the demon will live forever. As Black was meant to be and do. But I failed there.

"I am … admittedly unknowledgeable on such matters; they occur so rarely. How is 'forever' possible?"

"A demon … have you never seen one, Falcon?"

He shook his head. "Not on earth."

"… They are of and for the Devil. Protected by him. Only a holy child, born in the same time frame, from the same father can kill the Master's son. And since you battered Nydia's cunt so well, the odds of that happening are infinitesimally minute."

"The same time frame?" Falcon looked confused.

"666. Day, week, month, or minute."

"But not necessarily at precisely the same moment as your birthing?"

"That is correct."

Falcon was thoughtful for a few seconds. "It is reasonable to assume Balon's boy-child of love coupled with Nydia last night?"

"1 would think so. But your seed is much more powerful, Falcon; older, with the strength of the Master. No … I think she is with a demon child."

Falcon was not so certain, but he hid his doubts. He changed the subject. "There was an … intruder in the house last evening. I am very much surprised you did not sense the presence."

"An intruder, Falcon?"

The warlock's only reply was to lift his eyes upward.

"You are certain?"

"As certain as I know Nydia's cunt was tight."

The mother took no umbrage to his statement. "Male or female?"

"Male. A warrior."

The witch and the warlock looked at each other, gazes all knowing, holding. "So he has slipped out again." It was not a question from Roma.

"It's been many years since that one took any direct action on earth," Falcon said. "Jeanne d'Arc."

"That we know of," Roma corrected him. "I don't like this; that one has bested our Master on more than one occasion."

"Don't let him hear you say that. You know how our Prince hates the warrior."

"There can be no mistakes this time, Falcon. I must get Nydia and leave this place. The demons must be birthed. We can't take a chance on staying."

Falcon's face showed his concern … and something else. Roma read the silent worry lines.

"What, Falcon?"

"My dear … I don't believe we can leave—any of us—until it is concluded. The Master might make an exception for you, taking into consideration your condition. But the rest of us …" He left it at that.

"What are you babbling about?"

He shook his handsome head. "Not babble, Roma. I spoke with the Dark One's emissary early this morning, just before dawn. She told me that Whitfield is cut off; no escape. All is lost except for the taking of Balon's whore. That is why our Master returned here."

"Then … he is here?"

"Nearby. Angry. Brooding."

"But I spoke with him last night!"

"He is not angry with us. He knows the warrior is here—or at least suspects it—and is furious that his enemy would allow such a breach of the rules."

Roma laughed. "Those so-called 'rules' are unimportant; for the most part a myth."

"But our Master believes his enemy should abide by those rules—since He professes to be so holy."

Roma quietly picked up on the reversal of roles between herself and Falcon. "You have suddenly become quite knowledgeable, darling."

"Your time is short, Roma, and growing shorter with each tick of the clock. He has elevated me to a more lofty position here on earth."

"Congratulations, Falcon. It was only a matter of time."

He nodded his acceptance and appreciation of her citation. "He is mulling over a suggestion of mine."

*Oh?"

"That we breach all rules of the game; kill the young warrior now, just after we call out the forces present invisibly at all black masses."

"How did he receive that suggestion?"

"Well, I think."

"It's dangerous, Falcon, and could easily get out of control. Have you ever seen the calling out of the forces?"

"Truthfully … no. But Black Wilder told me once, oh, back in Germany, three centuries ago, back when I was a young buck, racing willy-nilly about, that he witnessed it once. Said it was quite spectacular, in a bell, book, and candle way. He was quite young .when he saw it … about two hundred, I believe he said. In this life, that is. Said it came very close to frightening him."

"It is frightening, Falcon. And in my condition, I could not witness it; too dangerous." She was thoughtful for a moment. "While it is dangerous, calling out the spirits, you must have done some research on the subject."

Falcon smiled.

"I thought as much," she returned the devilish smile. "If God's warrior is here, that would infuriate the ancient warrior, and he would have to fight, for it is his nature to do that. Our forces might win—and I stress might—but if they lost, it would seriously deplete our od forces on this planet."

"I took that into consideration. We would call out only those within a certain, prescribed distance of this locale, and only every other one, thereby insuring us a reserve."

"Wise. When did our Master say he would reach his decision?"

"An hour before dawn, tomorrow. If our Master's reply is yes, a special mass will be called for tomorrow night—midnight."

"You will need two virgins and another young one for the altar, to cut out her heart."

"We have them. The children from the city. Black will have to take part, and that is the only stumbling block I can see."

She shook her head. "My son is weak; not to be trusted. But I think perhaps a visit from the Dark One might put some steel in his backbone."

Falcon arched an eyebrow expressively.

"I will speak to the Prince if his answer is yes to the calling out."

Falcon nodded and turned to leave. "Oh," he said, "I saw Nydia and God's young warrior leaving the house a moment before I came here. They were practically beaming with love. I found it disgusting."

For a moment, Roma was flung back in time, to Whitfield, Fork County, to a little creek, beside which lovers lay, performing a marriage ceremony without benefit of legal entanglements. She smiled, a bittersweet movement of her lips, the smile touched with evil.

"Why are you smiling?" Falcon asked.

"I was thinking about a marriage I witnessed back in '58."

"Whitfield?"

"Yes. I think Sam and Nydia are about to do the same."

"It must have touched you, Roma. For you to remember something so trivial all these years."

Her returning gaze was hard. "In a manner of speaking. I puked after they left."

"Here," Nydia said, looking at the familiar surroundings. "Where you made me a Christian."

"I didn't make you a Christian, Nydia," Sam replied. "You made yourself a Christian. I just dropped a few sprinkles of water on your head." His face changed after saying that, hardening.

"What's wrong, Sam?"

"I was thinking about holy water, and how quickly it killed that man last evening. Last evening," he said softly. "So much is happening so fast."

"We must have picked up several quarts of holy water in the city," Nydia reminded him.

"We'll probably need every drop before this is over." And he smiled mischievously, one hand dropping into his jacket pocket.

"Why are you smiling, Sam?"

He pulled out a tiny vial of water. "I think we can spare this, don't you?"

Sudden tears sprang into her eyes. "Oh, Sam, I love you."

"I love you, too." He gently kissed her mouth. "You got the Bible?" He did not notice the tiny marks on the side of her neck, right above the vein.

"Yes. Where do I open it?"

"I haven't the vaguest idea. Let's sit down and look at it "

They sat and read for a time, reading various verses of different books of the Bible. Then Sam turned to the beginning. Together, they read parts of Genesis, neither of them knowing that Sam Balon had done the same thing when he married young Sam's mother in that impromptu ceremony, witnessed only by God and a tiny singing bird.

"I like this," Nydia said, pointing to chapter two verses 23 and 25.

"Then that's what it will be," Sam said.

They read the passages aloud, and then solemnly anointed each other's head with a tiny bit of holy water. They kissed tenderly, gently, Nydia saying, "I guess we're married."

"In whose eyes is the question," the strong voice came to them both.

"Did you hear that?" Nydia asked.

"Yes." Sam looked around him, and when he spoke, it was directed at the mysterious voice. "What do you mean: in whose eyes?"

But the voice was silent.

"I sensed his presence in the room this morning. Strong and male and fearless. I was going to say something about it, but the marriage idea came right on top of it."

Sam smiled. "Interesting choice of words. The voice speaks in riddles, I'd better warn you of that."

"Not this time. The hooved one has made his decision. You, young warrior, are marked for death. A special mass has been called for tomorrow night. They will attempt to call out the forces of darkness. If they succeed, I will do battle with them. You will know at midnight tomorrow night if their calling has been successful. If so, you must take your … wife and leave the house immediately. Do not attempt to fight them alone, they are too wily for your young age. You both must run and hide in the timber. But, a word of warning: you cannot travel past the set boundaries. You will know them, for they are easily seen. Remember, young warrior, your sole purpose is to destroy this coven, and tablet, if possible."

"Tablet? What tablet?" Sam asked.

"The Devil's tablet. It is here. Hidden."

"And if I destroy it, what happens?"

"That is an unanswerable question, for it has never been destroyed."

"Wonderful," Sam said sarcastically. "How will I know this tablet?"

"It will know you, for the tablet is evil, and you represent good."

"May I ask what may appear to be a foolish question?"

"Ask."

"Why me? And who are you?"

"That is two questions. Which do you want answered?"

"The first one."

"Because you are who you are."

"Thank you so very much!"

"Sam!" Nydia touched his arm. "Don't be ugly to … him."

"You are … good," the voice rumbled in their heads. "Both of you. Not perfect, but no mortal is. And I have made my decision: I will help you."

They both felt the force withdraw. They sat on the log. by the little creek, staring in amazement at each other.

"Sam?" Nydia said, her voice low. "Is all this a dream? Are we both going to wake up back at school and laugh about this?"

"No. But I wish that were true."

"Sam?"

"Umm?"

"I'm getting cold."

"I brought two blankets and a ground sheet."

"I wonder whatever on earth for?" She grinned shyly, then playfully but gently tickled his ribs. Gently because she knew how bruised they were.

"You really don't know?" Sam grinned.

"Oh, honestly, I don't!"

He showed her, both of them a bit timid and embarrassed, wondering if the face behind the voice was watching.

He was. And was both amused and concerned for them.

MONDAY AFTERNOON

While Sam carefully inspected the two backpacks he had put together, and oiled and cleaned the .45 pistol and the old Thompson SMG, Nydia went unmolested to the kitchen, where she put together enough food to last them several days, carrying it back to their rooms. She encountered several people on the trips, but they ignored her, not looking at or speaking to her. She felt like a stranger in a strange land, unable to speak the language, and fearful of the inhabitants. She saw Jimmy Perkins, and he openly leered at her, rubbing his crotch as she passed him. She kept her eyes straight ahead.

She saw Mac in the study, speaking with Black and Falcon. The look she received from the young man was not friendly, and she suspected he had been swayed into accepting the Other Side. When she returned from the kitchen, she saw Vicky sitting on Mac's lap, the young man openly fondling her bare breasts, and she knew her suspicions were correct. She did not know how he had been so easily converted, only that he had.

Sam did not seem surprised at the news. "Mac's weak," he said. "And he hasn't made many friends at school. The others told me he was a jack-off artist; couldn't get a date with anyone. That's probably one of the reasons Black invited him up here; knew he'd be an easy convert."

"Then we're alone, except for Linda, and I don't like her," Nydia said. "Jack-off artist, Sam? That's sad."

He shrugged. "Nydia, what is it between you and Linda?"

She shook her head. "I … hope I'm wrong about her—the way I feel. But I don't know."

"Come:on, Nydia: the truth. Why don't you like her?"

She smiled, an obvious effort on her part. "You're thinking I'm jealous . . . and in part, you're right. But only a very small part is jealousy, Sam. Hear me out," she raised a hand as he started to interrupt. "It's time. You remember on the way up here, that first day, the three of us? I told you I knew more about you than you thought? Well, Linda was my source of information. For the first few weeks of school, we roomed together."

"Sure, now I remember: Black had a few dates with her."

"My brother, in his eloquent manner of speaking, told me Linda didn't put out. That's why he stopped dating her. But he told her enough about you to get her interested, and she talked about you almost nonstop; almost as if she were desperate to get with you. I had to get out,.move into a different room. But that's not the main reason, Sam. I don't trust her. I think she's one of … them," she averted her eyes to the door. "And they don't know it."

"I … don't follow you, honey."

"All right, then hear this; tell me what it means: There is a … peculiar mark on Linda's chest, just under her left breast. She saw me looking at it and told me it was a birthmark. But that's no birthmark, Sam. I've seen others like it, on people visiting here at Falcon House. One time that same mark was on all the people here. I saw it when they were swimming. I sneaked out of my room to a place just off the pool area. I was just a little girl at the time, but I've never forgotten it. They frightened me. I ran back to my room and stayed there the entire time they were here, pretending to be sick."

"What does this mark look like?"

"A five-pointed star."

"Pentagram. I know from watching horror movies that has something to do with black magic, the occult. Why didn't you tell me about this before, Nydia?"

"1 never gave it much thought, Sam. Things were happening so quickly around here it just slipped my mind. Then all of a sudden, the other day, when she was sitting with us at the table, it came to me … like a sixth sense in my head." She sighed, "Maybe I'm paranoid."

"And maybe not," Sam said thoughtfully. "We'll just have to play it by ear while we're getting ready to run."

She came to him and put her arms around his waist. "Hold me, Sam."

She was trembling, and Sam could sense, with the recently acquired powers of perception and silent communication, that the trembling had nothing to do with fear.

"What's the matter, honey? I know something is wrong, but I can't read you."

"Don't ask me how I know, Sam; I've read and heard that some women just sense when they're pregnant. And I'm pregnant. I know it."

Sam thought, forgetting that she could read his thoughts, I wonder if the baby belongs to me, or to Falcon?

"That's the problem, Sam. I don't know!"

* * *

"You are to remain close to Sam Balon King," the burning voice scorched into the brain of the receiver. "If all fails here, and he dies, then your only mission in life will be to stay with Nydia and make certain of the well-being of the child growing within her womb. Accept whatever comes your way, be it feigned faith in their God, or the life of poverty or prostitution, only the child's welfare is important—do you understand?"

"Yes, Master," her voice was full of strength and awe.

"You are a good actress. Your show to date has been superb. I compliment you."

"Thank you, Master. It was all for you."

"Don't become gushy, bitch! I cannot tolerate such behavior. You are a woman, your only purpose in life is to fuck; receiving maleness in whatever hole they choose to stick it in. Don't forget what I told you."

"I shall not, Master."

"For your sake, I hope not. Now go to them."

"Sam? Nydia?" the knock on the closed door as timid as the voice.

Nydia looked at Sam. "Your sweetie, darling," she said, her voice as warming as an arctic breeze in the dead of winter.

"Retract claws, dear," Sam told her. "We don't know anything for certain."

"I know one thing for sure. No … make that two things."

"And that is … ?"

"She's got the hots for you, and if she tries to come on, I'll snatch her bald-headed."

Sam nodded his head as he moved toward the door, remembering Nydia's right cross in the den. He opened the door cautiously, tensely, expecting anything to come leaping at him. But Linda stood there, looking pale and frightened and really, Sam thought, real pretty.

"I read that!" Nydia projected.

Damn! "Come in, Linda." He closed the door behind her.

"Wow," she said. "What happened to your face?"

"Little accident," Sam said, not really lying to her. "Tell you about it later."

"I … uh … just wanted to be with you guys for a few minutes, that's all. Maybe have dinner with you all this evening, if that's okay?"

"Of course," Nydia answered for the both of them, thinking, Where would you like to start eating—on Sam?

"And I read that, honey."

"You're going to read a lot more before this evening is over."

"You guys went off somewhere this morning," Linda said. "I got a little panicky."

Nydia was hammering mental thrusts at Linda, attempting to enter her mind. She could not. Her attitude softened a bit toward the young woman, as she detected truth in her statements. Still, there was something about her . . . some little vagueness Nydia could not pinpoint.

"We went for a walk in the timber," Sam said.

And got married, Nydia thought. So hands off, babe! And, she mentally tallied up the events of the past! twenty-four hours, where were you when I was getting raped by Falcon's baseball bat.

"It's not that big," Sam projected.

"It wasn't sticking in you, dear."

"True. Thank God."

Linda said, "I don't know what's been the matter with me lately.. I sleep so soundly … even when I lie down just to nap. I've never done that before . . . sleep so much, I mean."

"It's the cold clean air," Sam suggested.

Linda solemnly shook her head. "No, Sam. It's much more than that. And I think you two know it. This place is weird! No offense, Nydia, but it's true—it is. I'd like to go back to Carrington. Would one of you take me?"

Sam sighed, cutting his eyes to Nydia. She shrugged. "Sit down, Linda," he said. "I guess we'd better talk."

Jane Ann stood at her picture window, gazing out at the quiet street. It was ominously silent in Whitfield. For a time there had been the faint sounds of hammering. Now that was gone.

Jane Ann looked down at her hands and was reminded of a TV commercial: Hands of a twenty year old, she smiled. But not for long. That hammering was meant for me. They wanted me to hear it. She again looked at her hands. It's going to hurt when they drive the nails.

The mist that was Balon hovered silently, watching Jane Ann, knowing every thought in her mind and unable to help, for what she was thinking was true. And if a being from the Other Side could sigh, Balon did, knowing she would have to endure almost unbearable pain for a time … before he could step in to end it. She would be humiliated, sexually assaulted, tortured … tested. Only then could he end it. And after Balon did that, He would really end it, and Whitfield would be no more.

Miles and Doris, Wade and Anita sat in the growing darkness of the living room, discussing the Bible. They knew they should turn on some lights, but they did not want to break the feeling of closeness they were sharing.

"Let's pray for Jane Ann," Wade suggested.

The Clay Man sat motionless on the porch steps, knowing his short time in a form resembling human conformation was ticking away. The golem knew degrees of the human emotion, picking them up from osmosis. He rather liked these humans he protected, but he had no desire to be like them. He did wonder what would happen to him when it was his time to return to the earth. Would he still be aware of his surroundings? He didn't know. Then, that thought was pushed from him with such swiftness the golem was not aware of ever possessing it.

You are all things, he was told. And will always be such.

And the Clay Man was at peace with himself, feeling new strength enter his form.

Just outside of town, the Beasts had gathered to feast on the bodies of those who had died in Whitfield. They snarled and growled and ripped the dead meat from the bones, stuffing their fanged mouths as the drool dripped from their jaws, leaking in slimy ribbons to foul the ground. The males found a human female among the piles of bodies, a female who had only pretended to be dead, who was suffering from only minor injuries. And as was their custom, they dragged her screaming to the oldest male among them, the leader.

Her shrieks as they tore the clothing from her changed to wails of pure terror as the big male pushed her to her bare knees and mounted her under the cool moonlight of western fall. When the oldest male had finished, the other males, according to age and rank in the pecking order of things, took their turn with the woman, each biting her on the neck as they lunged deep within her.

Within hours her body would be covered with thick, course hair, her face would change, the jaw enlarging, and she would be as them. She would be able only to mumble and snarl and growl, and the Beasts would understand her, and she them. She would not remember worshiping of the God she thought she was deceiving as she prayed and lied.

And she would be happy in her new form.

In another part of Fork County, Jake rubbed his crotch and thought of Jane Ann. Jean had told him, since he was largest of the men, in one particular department, certainly not mentally, he could have Jane Ann first—in any fashion Jake chose. Just make the prissy little bitch holler. Jake grinned. He figured he could damn sure do that, all right.

Jean came to him in the night, opening her shirt so he could fondle her breasts, pinch the nipples in play-pain.

"You want me to suck you off, Jake?"

"Yeah," he dropped his filth-encrusted jeans to the ground, around his boots. "Yeah, you do that."

And she kneeled between his naked legs.

Nothing came close to Whitfield; no cars or trucks traveled the single ribbon of highway to or from the small damned community. There were no birds, except for the scavenger and carrion type, which wheeled and circled and called. Any animal that could leave the area, had left, a precognition in their tiny brains telling them to stay would mean death.

It was as if the physical elements that made up the town of Whitfield: the brick, the stone, the mortar, the timber, had but one single thought: they were going to be destroyed.

Soon.

MONDAY NIGHT

"Black magic? Devil worship? Roma and Mr. Falcon are witch and warlock?" Linda looked first at Sam, then Nydia. "Vampires? You're both putting me on—right?"

"No," Sam insisted. "It's all true."

"Your … real father left you a letter? You've been in communication with the … spirit world?"

"That is correct, Linda," Nydia said. "I know it's hard to believe, but it's true. Believe it."

She looked at the pair for a long moment. Finally a slow smile began pulling at her mouth. "Now I get it! Oh, boy … you two had me going for a minute. It's all a big joke, isn't it? Yeah. There's gonna be some sort of … costume party here, right? Spooks and monsters and things like that. Okay, I won't spoil it for you guys."

"Linda," Nydia leaned forward, taking the young woman's hands into her own, "it isn't a joke. It's deadly serious. I was raped last night—by Falcon. In a casket! Sam was beaten after my own mother—Roma—seduced Sam. Judy is one of them."

"Lana?" the question was asked in a soft voice.

"Most definitely."

"Then … everyone here is … one of those people?"

"Except for the young girls the new members brought with them. We're alone," Sam said. "In human form that is.

"And I don't trust you," Nydia said, still holding Linda's hands. The young woman tried to pull back, away, but Nydia's grip was strong.

"What … what do you mean: you don't trust me?"

"Nydia," Sam cautioned her. "I …"

"No, Sam! Let's get it in the open." She gave the entrapped young woman a dark look. "You're one of them yourself, Linda."

"No!"

"The pentagram on your chest."

"That's a birthmark, Nydia. I swear before God it is. You've got to believe me."

Somewhere in the house, a wailing began, containing a familiar note of pain and terror.

"What in God's name is that?" Linda asked.

"You've never heard it before?" Sam asked. "You don't know?"

"No, Sam—I swear it."

"That's one of the young girls brought in—kidnapped from God knows where. She's being raped … from both ends, probably; passed around among some pretty heavy-hung guys. She's not enjoying it very much, is she?"

Tears sprang into the blue of the girl's eyes. "I don't want that done to me. Ever! Oh, God, believe me, both of you, I'm a Christian. I go to church every Sunday. I worship God, not the Devil. Please, help me, believe me."

"Get the Bible, Sam," Nydia said. "Let's see."

The Bible was placed next to Linda. Nydia released her hands. Linda grabbed up the Holy Book and clutched it to her, her tears dropping onto the leather of the Book. "As is my witness," she said. "I love only Him. I swear it."

"Holy water," Nydia said, still not convinced of Linda's sincerity.

Sam put a few drops of holy water on the young woman's forehead. Nothing happened.

Nydia leaned back in her chair, nodding her acceptance.. "All right, Linda. I guess you're telling the truth."

The young woman fell to the floor and began weeping uncontrollably. Sam glanced at Nydia and shook his head, silently projecting: "I told you so."

Her reply was a shrug. She said, "Linda, move your things into my room; stay close to us. We'll make it out of this … mess."

Linda stayed on her knees, on the floor, for several moments, alternately weeping and praying. Finally, she rose to her feet, wiped her eyes, and apologized for her behavior.

"It's understandable, Nydia said, warming more and more toward her. "It's gotten next to both of us, several times. Go on," she gave her a gentle push, "get your things and come right back."

After she had left, Sam said, "But she could still be one of them. Roma told me the Holy Water only affects a witch, warlock, or the undead."

"What a performance." The burning words seared into the girl's head. "You almost had me weeping over your dilemma. But water and I don't mix very well. Such a pity it wasn't Oscar night."

"Thank vou," was her reply

"Well done." The voice cut into her brain. "Spoken without being gushy. You're learning quickly. I'll be in touch."

"Yes, Master."

And the evil force was gone from the room.

"Your mother must bear me the demon," the hot words penetrated into Black's brain. "She must be taken care of with the utmost of delicacy. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Master."

"You had better understand, young man. I will not tolerate any further backbiting from you. No more plotting against the female who birthed you. She soon will have served her purpose on earth and will be called home ... to me."

"I understand, Master. Falcon?"

"Oh, you are a schemer, aren't you? Not a drop of loyalty in you."

"Only to you, Prince."

"Bah! Only to me because you are afraid of me. You shit your pants each time we communicate. Do you really believe, young man, that you can best your mentor?"

"Sir, Falcon is not my mentor. Falcon is an idiot."

"Perhaps he is that, to a point. But he has loyalty, and that is something you do not possess."

"What can I do to prove my love for you?"

"Obey orders, for one thing." The voice had a tinge of dryness to it. "Have patience, young schemer, for you are but a child in the order of darkness. You have this life to live before anything of any significance is placed into your greedy hands."

Black was pouty. "I should have been born a true demon."

"Yes, but you weren't, and there is nothing even I can do about that. Have patience, those are my orders, and I expect to have them obeyed."

"I will obey you, Master. But now you hear me, …"

"Oh? Perhaps there is some hope for you after all. I detect—for the first time, I must add—a touch of courage in your usually whiny voice."

"I will rule this Coven, Master. Perhaps not today, or tomorrow, but someday. And if Falcon gets in my way … I will kill him."

The Prince of Darkness was silent for a moment. "Very well, young man, you have made your desires known. Fine. I admire and respect courage. Perhaps there is more of Balon in your blood than even I suspected. We shall see. I will tell you this much: should Falcon fail, and should you have the opportunity and skill to destroy him … well, that would be points in your favor."

Black wanted to ask more of the Prince, but with a rush of stinking winds, the Master of the Profane was gone, and Black knew better than to push the issue. But, the man smiled, the King of Terror had not rejected his words or chastized him for them. So there was a glimmer of hope.

Ruler of the Coven. Black rather liked the sound of that.

ONE HOUR BEFORE DAWN TUESDAY

"He has spoken," Falcon said. "We will attempt to call out the forces this evening."

Roma lay on her bed. She did not feel well, for the demon within her was growing as a cancer in her womb, and she was in pain much of the time. "I wish you a great deal of luck, Falcon," she whispered. "But I must add this note of warning: watch Black, for his plottings now include you. The Master has warned him that I must be protected, but you have no such assurances from the Prince. Be careful."

"Then Black is a fool. He underestimates me, Roma."

"Grossly."

"I may be forced to kill him, or have him killed."

"He should have died at birth," the mother said, turned her head away, and bit her lips as waves of pain struck her, cramping her.

Falcon watched her twist on the sheets. "Is there nothing I can do?"

"Only tell me that Nydia is in the same agony."

"I am afraid she is not."

"That does not mean she is undergoing a normal gestation period. The sperm may be in combat within her. It could be days, even weeks—before the matter is decided. It is entirely possible it will not be decided until the moment of birth, or even weeks afterward. It depends upon who is present; if one of our kind is there, and has the power from the Prince, it could even take months … years. I know of such cases. In any event, I will not know the outcome for some time."

"Why, Roma?"

"Because I will be gone."

"Roma?" He walked to the bed of Devil-induced pain, "What of the demon?"

"If it is a true demon—and believe me, I know that it is—it will need very little assistance after birthing. Only a week or so of suckling. Then the metamorphosis is so rapid it is not only unbelievable, it is also utterly terrifying in its majesty."

"If …" Falcon struggled for words.

"Go, Falcon, you have much to do and I do not wish you to witness my suffering. Go."

He moved away from the bed, walking to the door. He paused. "I will tell you how things went this night, Roma.

She laughed, and her laughter chilled him. "If you live through it, darling. Many of those called will be rabid from the pits."

TUESDAY MORNING

They had slept unusually late. Sam awakened the young ladies roughly, no gentleness to his touch. He spoke the same message to each young woman: "Get up. Get dressed. Boots, jeans, heavy shirt. Keep a jacket close by. It's only a matter of hours before we have to run for our lives."

"What's happened, Sam?" Nydia asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"I … think we're about to witness the most awesome event to ever occur on the face of this earth.'' He smiled. "Other than that fellow who was born in Bethlehem, that is." He sobered again. "Remember what the voice told us: the calling out of the forces of darkness? It's going to happen tonight."

"He came to you? He told you?"

"No. I just know." Sam shook his head. "I don't know, Nydia—maybe he did come to me in my sleep. I have no recall of any conversation between us. I just woke up and knew it was going to happen."

"I am scared half out of my mind," Linda said.

"That makes it a club of three," Sam replied.

In the lush timber behind the great house, a shadowy figure drifted in and out of the tall trees. While movements seemed vague and uncertain, the tall warrior was actually deep in thought, his musings troubled and sometimes dark with fury. Of all things that held sway outside of the firmament, the warrior hated Satan with a passion that borderlined on disobedience to the teachings of God the Father. Indeed, the warrior had come close to admonition from Him on more than one occasion for his passionate hatred of Satan. The warrior had pleaded with Him for millennia to destroy the Beast once and for all. Have done with the Filthy One. End it. Call His people home.

But the Master of All Things would merely shake His head and say, "Not yet."

And the warrior knew that "not yet" would apply to this blinking in the span of all things, as well. He was not afraid of the od forces; he knew no fear of the demons and the other grotesque creatures that would soon be called to appear. He had destroyed their kind many times in the past, and would this time. No … what troubled the old warrior was the mystery in the great house of the Evil One, and should he alert the young Christian offspring of Balon to that mystery?

No, he finally decided. No, I can do only so much without overstepping the boundaries. Really, he concluded, I have probably interfered too much as it is.

He stopped by the filthy, sin-encrusted circle of dark stones and looked toward the mansion. No, young warrior, you must cope with that mystery by yourself. I will help in other matters, but in this, your strength must be all powerful; your faith all-believing and never wavering; and your cunning at its zenith.

God be with you.

TUESDAY NOON

The wailing had stopped. The great house was silent. It seemed to the trio seated close together in Sam's room as if they were alone: the only ones left in the mansion.

"The only humans," Nydia said.

Linda shuddered with fear. Sam had a brief fleeting thought of putting his arm around her shoulders, but gave up that idea when Nydia read his thoughts and gave him a look that would fry bacon.

"Sam?" Nydia asked. "What is an od force?"

"Beats me. Where'd you hear that?"

"It just popped into my head."

"It has to do with the supernatural," Linda said. "Sorcery … stuff like that."

Eyes swung toward her. Nydia stiffened on the day couch.

"My little brother got all involved in that stuff for a time, until my parents made him stop it," Linda explained. "He was—right there at the end—trying to get in touch with the dead; all that junk. I heard him mention that od force thing several times. My uncle, Uncle Homer, really used to kid Billy—that's my kid brother—about it. It got to the point my brother hated … really hated Uncle Homer. He'd go in his room at night with a doll he'd made—called it Uncle Homer—and read and light candles and chant all those weird incantations, trying to get something to happen to Uncle Homer. Finally Dad made him quit; said Uncle Homer didn't mean anything by it. But Billy hated Uncle Homer until the day he died. Billy refused to go to the funeral."

"The funeral?" Nydia asked.

"Yes. Uncle Homer was killed one day; strangest thing, too. Just walking along the street in Buffalo and a small piece of steel fell from up where some workers were doing repair work—really high up on a building. Split his head wide open. Died right then and there."

"What was Billy's favorite way of killing his Uncle?" Sam asked.

Linda blinked, paled, then said, "Hitting the doll on the head with a … hammer."

TUESDAY NIGHT

Sam had taken the heaviest pack and distributed the weight of the other materials evenly among the young women. He had looked for his father's picture, literally tearing up the room in his search. But the picture was gone. He gave up the search, turning as Nydia slipped something into his pocket.

"What's that, babe?" he asked.

She smiled. "I thought they might come in handy. Little pills you can buy on campus—if you know the right person—just before you have to start cramming for an exam."

Amphetamines. Sam returned the smile. "I heard that."

"How are we going to get out of here?" Linda asked. "Won't they stop us?"

"They would if they saw us." Sam grinned. "But I'm betting they won't."

"How do we manage that, Sam?" Nydia asked.

"You remember complaining about all that rope we took from the storage area that night?"

"Yes. So?"

"We're going to climb down, ladies," Sam said, pointing to the window. "Right through there and down."

"Sam! … that's fifty feet."

"Not really. It just seems that far." He smiled mischievously. It was about forty feet down, though, but he wasn't going to tell them that. He pulled a knotted rope from under the bed. "I did this while you two were napping this afternoon." He secured the rope to a bed post and then opened the window, removing the screen. "You two go, then I'll secure the rope from that drain bracing just outside the window, crawl out on the ledge, and close the window behind me. The doors are locked to both rooms, so with any luck we'll be able to fool them 'til morning." He took a firm grip on the rope. "You first, Nydia. Easy does it."

She hesitated only long enough to kiss him on the mouth and then was gone down the rope, scampering to the ground. Sam looked at Linda. She shook her head.

"I … can't. I'm afraid of heights, Sam."

Sam was painfully blunt with her. "How would you like to be gang-screwed, Linda? Passed around among ten or fifteen guys? And then positioned on your knees and fucked like a dog—right up the asshole?"

She looked at him in shock, then without any further comments, she went out the window and down the rope, fear making her strong.

Sam watched the two women gather together on the ground. then untied the rope from the bed post and secured it to the drain brace. He lowered the three packs, then the other equipment, finally the weapons. He slipped out onto the ledge, feeling the bite of the suddenly cold winds of November as they came singing from the north.

He was halfway to the ground when he felt the rope begin to give in his hands and the bracketing spikes pull away from the brick and mortar. But Sam was a veteran parachutist, young and in excellent physical shape, and a fifteen foot drop was no more to him than stepping off a curb. He hit the ground rolling and sprang to his feet.

"Better this way," he said. "The rope won't be dangling for anyone to see. Besides, we might need the rope before we're through."

Sam struggled into his backpack and the others did the same, Nydia asking, "Which way do we go, Sam?"

"North, to the high ground," he said, pointing through the darkness. "That ridge about three-quarters of a mile from the stone circle. I want to see this calling out of the forces." He turned and took the point, leading the way, three who refused to bow to the whims of Satan, three who chose to fight rather than surrender; three who maintained a strong belief in their God.

But as they walked through the night, toward the deep timber, one among them looked back at the great house … and smiled … oddly.

Since he had first noticed the unusual activity in the Heavens, the astronomer at the observatory in California had been quietly working overtime. On his own time and with his own equipment. He had asked for and received permission to take two weeks of his vacation and Ralph was now deep and high in the rugged mountains of California, maintaining a vigil, sleeping during the day, working from dawn to dusk.

He had discovered another area where unusual activity was periodically occurring. And he spent his nights alternating his powerful telescope between east and west. His wife, Betty, although not a professional stargazer, did have enough experience in the field to be more than an amateur, and, like her husband, was a Christian. If Ralph said he saw the face of God, then he saw it. Period. Now Betty would like to see His face. Or she thought she would.

"Why are you changing scope position tonight?" she asked, watching her husband reposition the small but extremely powerful scope, shifting it to the east.

"Hunch," he replied. "You ought to know after all these years of putting up with me that I'm a hunch player.

"What do you feel is going to happen?"

He shook his head. "I … can't really answer that, honey." He glanced at his watch. Seven o'clock, PST. Ten o'clock over most of Quebec Province. He didn't know how he knew, but he felt time was growing short. Two more hours, maximum, until … whatever it was would occur. Unless he was all wet in his hunch playing. "Make us a fresh pot of coffee, honey," he said. "Maybe sandwiches, too, if you will, please. Come midnight, hereabouts, we'll be too busy for anything else."

"Ralph! You're being deliberately vague."

"No. No, really that's not true. I just don't know … what we're going to see. And … I'm a little afraid of it, I think."

She shivered beside him.

He put an arm around her shoulders. "Cold?"

"No," the reply was softly given. And he asked no more questions, just held her to him in a loving embrace. They clung together for a few seconds before she pulled away. "Ralph! Now don't you get any funny ideas."

"Why not?" He grinned at her. "We have two hours."

She returned the grin and took his hand. As they walked to the solid little cabin they had built—working side by side—more than twenty years back, she said, "Ridiculous! And at our age, too."

The mist that was Balon's shape on earth shifted almost nervously. He sensed something was building, far to the east, and he was worried, wanting to go to his son, but knowing he could not. His place was here, with Jane Ann and the others, and young Sam would have to work it out alone. The mist seemed to smile. Well … not quite alone. The warrior was there … he knew the warrior was there, and knew, too, that the mighty one would help Sam all he could. But if Balon's suspicions were correct, the warrior would have his hands full combating the forces that would soon leave the netherworld, trekking their way past the smoking veil and into present life and form.

It would be an awesome sight, Balon felt. And one hell of a fight.

"Here." Sam dropped his pack to the ground. "We can see it all from here and still have time to run if they spot us."

"Run where?" Linda asked.

"Run and run," Sam answered the edgy question. "Run. Hide. Then run some more. Until it's time to make a stand and fight it out."

"When will that be?" Again, the questioner was Linda.

"When it's time," Sam told her, patience in his tone. "I'll know."

"How?" she pushed him for a firm answer.

Nydia gave him a look that said all her past suspicions were returning.

"I can't give you a flat, firm answer to that." Sam looked at the flat plain that contained the dark circle of stones. The altar, although Sam could just barely make out, held a vivid white slash across its top. "But I'll know."

His answer did not satisfy the young woman, but she shut up.

"1 wonder what their reaction will be when they discover we're gone?" Nydia asked.

"Rage and hate," Sam said, shifting the Thompson from left hand to right. He looked at Linda. "Can you fire a weapon?"

She shook her head. "My dad never allowed them in the house. He said guns kill people."

"People kill people," Sam said, rebutting her statement. He glanced at Nydia, and she picked up the unspoken question from his thoughts.

"I can shoot. Rifle, shotgun, pistol."

"All right!" Sam smiled.

"But I've never had to shoot at a human being," she added.

"These aren't human beings," Sam reminded her.

Linda shifted her butt on the ground. Nydia put her hand to the side of her neck, touching the tiny bite marks. They itched. She wondered what had bitten her. "What time is it, Sam?"

"Eleven-thirty, Eastern time," Ralph said to his wife, "We'd better get into position."

She grinned at him.

"Old lady," he returned the grin, "you are a wanton woman."

"I'm a-wantin' you," she aped a southern accent. "Again."

"See me next week, some time." He zipped up his jacket.

"Getting old, eh?"

Ralph waggled his eyebrows and grinned lewdly at his wife. He stepped out into the cold mountain air of the Sierra Nevada range, striding purposefully to the small observatory he had built on one of the highest peaks of that range. His wife was only seconds behind him.

"Wait up," she called, and he stopped, holding out his hand.

"What's the matter, old woman—did I wear you out?"

"Dream on, stud." She squeezed his hand. They walked for a few seconds in silence, his wife breaking the mood by asking: "Ours has been a good marriage, hasn't it, Ralph?"

"Any better and I couldn't have stood it," he joked.

"No, I'm serious, honey."

"It's been the best, and I mean that. Why are you asking that at this time?" He stopped, looking at her in the brightness of starlight. Stars that seemed close enough to reach out and touch.

"It's just … well, we enjoy … it so much. You know what I mean? Sometimes I think we enjoy it too much."

He laughed aloud, pulling her to him. "Honey, you worry about the darnedest things. Nowhere in the Bible—that I can find—does it say a married man and woman can't enjoy all the slap and tickle they can handle. And I think if I ever find that passage, I'll just ignore it; pretend like I didn't see it. I might even petition … someone to get it thrown out."

She smiled. "They have been good years, Ralph. I wouldn't trade them for anything. I mean that."

"You're in a very reflective mood this evening. Why?"

"You know I always get that way when we come up here. It's ... a feeling of being so close to all things that really matter."

"A feeling of being closer to Him?"

"Yes," she said softly.

"Well … so do I, honey. That's why I love to come up here."

She kissed him and said, "Let's go view the Heavens."

"What time is it now, Sam?" Nydia asked.

" 'Bout three minutes later than the last time you asked me." He grinned, white teeth flashing against the tan of his face.

She squeezed his hand. "Anybody ever tell you you're a handsome fellow?"

The look Linda gave her, hidden in the gloom of the timber, was of hate.

"Oh. dozens of girls. Hundreds. And one guy."

"Are you serious?"

"About the guy?"

"Yes," she laughed.

"Sure am. Never ran so fast in all my life. Fellow tried to kiss me … right on the mouth."

Linda did not share their humor, sitting glumly on the ground behind them, her eyes full of hate.

Nydia laughed softly. "I don't believe you, but tell me about the girls."

"Oh … they all lusted after my body. Nearly drove me crazy. I finally had to get a big stick and carry it with me. One time I started a riot; all the girls started chasing me and fighting over who got to keep me. Why …"

"Sam," she stopped him, "that is the biggest lie I have ever heard."

"Yeah," he grinned, "I guess it is, at that." He put an arm around her shoulders just as Linda got to her feet and walked to the crest of the ridge where they stood.

"Oh, my God!" she said, pointing to the dark circle of stones. "Look down there. Past the stones and stuff. Over by the house."

A long wavering line of torches smoked the night, casting trembling evil flickers of light into the sky. The line marched toward the circle of stones.

The trio on the ridge above the sin-stained circle of stones watched for a few moments. The line came to the barren plain and slowly began to circle the stones.

"What time is it?" Linda asked.

Sam glanced at his watch. "Eleven fifty-five."

MIDNIGHT

"You are too close," the voice boomed into Sam's head. "It is dangerous where you are. And it is not advisable for mortals to view this awfulness."

"I have to see what I am to fight," Sam replied, as Nydia and Linda looked at him in surprise. "Stubborn. And young. Very well. Have it your way, young warrior."

The mighty voice faded.

"Who were you talking to?" Linda asked.

"The Other Side," Sam replied.

"The other side of what?"

"Life." Sam thought for a few seconds, then added, "As we know it."

Linda pulled her attention back to the torches. She shook her head in disbelief. Neither Sam nor Nydia knew if the almost indiscernible movement of her head was meant for Sam or the scene before them.

On the fringe of the torch-lit circle, the trio on the top of the ridge watched as shadowy figures moved closer to the light, walking in a peculiar, hunkered manner. Even at this great distance they looked grotesque … not human.

"The Beasts," Nydia said.

"I wonder where they came from?" Sam mused aloud.

"I mean … what was their origin?"

"Hell, I suppose," she replied. "I don't know, Sam. You know as much about them as I do."

Linda was strangely silent.

God's failures! The phrase leaped into Sam's mind.

And the young man questioned that statement: but how can . . . could God fail at anything?

He wished for the mighty voice to return: to answer his questions, but the voice was silent. Then he remembered something his mother had told him, something his real father had told her: nobody knows how many times God tried to make man in His own image … and failed.

Sam pondered that for a few moments, thinking: were the Beasts God's failures? What happened to cause the failure?

"I can't answer that, either, Sam," Nydia said. "Only He can answer that."

"I forgot you can read my thoughts. I wonder if we'll always have that power?"

"I … really hope not, Sam."

"Yeah, me too."

"You two can read each other's thoughts?" Linda asked, astonishment in her voice.

"Yes," Nydia said. "And sometimes other peoples' thoughts as well."

Sam glanced at her. "You know something I don't? he projected.

Nydia refused to reply.

"There's something going on down there," Linda said. "Look."

The participants in the calling of the forces had gathered in circles, several rings of them, each growing progressively smaller inward, the Beasts forming the larger outer circle. The circles began moving, the first clockwise, the next counterclockwise, the third circle clockwise, the inner circle counterclockwise. It was a grotesque form of dancing, the women dancing back to back, the men front to front. They hummed lowly, the faint humming only occasionally reaching the ridge, Standing by the dark altar was Falcon, his face whitened with makeup, in stark contrast to his black robe.

Sam stood with Nydia by his side, both of them watching through binoculars. "Hideous," was her only comment.

The humming changed into a chanting, the dancing becoming more profane. The chanting changed into a low roar as three young girls were dragged screaming through the dancing, leaping, chanting circles of worshipers. One was stripped naked, her clothing ripped from her. She was secured to the altar, her legs spread wide, bent at the knees. She could not have been more than eleven or twelve.

"I don't want to watch this," Nydia said. She lowered her binoculars and turned her face from the scene of depravity and sin.

"I want to see it," Linda said.

"I suspected you might," Nydia said, just loud enough for Sam to hear.

Sam's face remained impassive. He said nothing. He knew something was going on between the two young women, but did not know what. Linda took the binoculars, lifting them to her eyes. Nydia turned her back to the obscenity below her and sat down on a log, zipping up her jacket to her throat for protection against the strengthening wind.

"Call the hyenas!" a voice screamed, and the chanting grew thunderous.

"Dogges, Dogges," the circles screamed. "Hear our cries, 0, Dogges."

"Call the centaur!" the voice commanded.

A bleating young lamb was dragged into the circle. Its throat was cut and the blood sprinkled around the altar, encircling the naked, weeping girl.

"Centaurs, centaurs, those who prance for the Prince of Darkness. Ixion and Nephele, Kentaurus and Magnesian. Come to us now."

"Call the satyrs!"

"Diomedes! Dionysus! Flesh eater and Lord of all that is pleasurable. Come join us."

The flesh of the lamb was ripped from its body and passed about the circles, the dancers gnawing at the bloody strips of meat.

"Call the griffin!"

The chant went up.

"Call the owl and the raven!"

And Sam heard the beating of wings overhead. Something beat close to his head. Instinctively, he ducked, the talons just missing his head.

"Call the Great Rukh!"

The dancers began flapping their arms and shrieking hideously.

"Bring me the basilisk!"

"Where is Sirius?" the circles called.

"Sirius is in place," Falcon answered, lifting his arms skyward.

"Bring to us the double amphisbaena."

The circles hissed ominously.

Falcon threw a great caldron of water into the air, calling: "The hydra—come, hydra, those of you who know the Master."

"Come, hydra," the dancers chanted.

Another dark caldron of water was hurled into the cold air, Falcon shouting, "The Demon Merman."

The circle of leaping, hunching, chanting dancers began a movement that vaguely resembled a huge fish swimming.

"Bring the bats and the rats!"

The forest surrounding them became eerily silent.

Then a faint scurrying sound was heard, and something furry and evil brushed Sam's boots. He kicked it away just as Nydia muffled a scream. Sam whirled: a bat was entangled in her hair. She finally slapped it free and the furry filth went flapping and screeching off into the night, toward the torches and the stones.

"Black!" Falcon shouted. "Now!" he pointed to the terrified girl bound naked to the altar. Black jumped upon the altar.

Like Falcon, he was dressed in a dark robe. He lifted his robe, exposing his erect maleness. Lunging at the girl, he tore her bloody as he bulled his way inside her, laughing at her pitiful screaming.

The circle of dancers laughed with Black, howling their glee at the child's wails of pain. Falcon ran to her, teeth shining brightly in the torchlight. Fanged. He bent his head and tore at the vein in her neck, sucking her blood just as Black began his ejaculation.

Rats, the lower form of creatures that they are, began running and squeaking around the dancers, they, too, taking a joyful part in the evil ceremonies. Bats wheeled and cut the night, squeaking their contentment to be free of the darkness in which they had been confined.

"The merman!" Falcon looked up from the girl's throat, blood leaking from his mouth. He pointed to the sky as a horrible creature sluggishly made its way through the darkness.

Others of the Coven rushed forward to drink at the dying girl's fountain of gushing blood. A male member of the Coven took Black's place between the girl's legs, lunging at her as her body began to pale from the loss of blood.

"I don't believe I'm seeing this," Sam muttered.

"What is that thing?" Linda asked. "It looks like it's half man—or monster—and half fish."

"And part goat," Sam muttered, looking at the horned head of the merman.

"Call the little people!" Falcon shouted. "Come, imps. You have our Master's permission. Come!"

At first, Sam began to sense, more than see, the change in the sky. The change was very gradual, the flush in th sky above the circle of stones changing little by little, from a dark amber, through the color patterns, until finally it settled into a dark, bloody red, the glow transforming the scene before them and around them, their own faces and exposed hands now an ugly red.

"What is that smell?" Nydia asked, still sitting on the log behind Sam and Linda.

"Sulfur," Sam whispered.

"It's more than that," Nydia said. "It's … evil."

Linda looked at her.

The sky was now a color of Hell, the flames—real or imagined—licked the area above them, dancing down out of the sky to touch and mar the earth. The stink from the pits stung the eyes of the three on the ridge, wrinkling their noses against the smell.

As Falcon began another incantation, the sky was suddenly filled with bats, hundreds of them, their excrement falling to the ground with soft plops. The ground around the circle wriggled with rats, their red eyes reflecting dully in the torchlight and the strange coloration of the sky.

"Hear me, 0 Lord of Filth. Hear my cries, 0 Prince of Darkness. Hold us close to your chest, Apollyon. Let us taste more of your foulness; touch us with your lips; let us hear the sounds of your cloven hooves. For we, to a soul, are yours. Send the forces of all that is evil to aid us. Send the serpents and the demons, the denied and the defiled. Come to us, little people!"

And as if Merlin had suddenly waved his wand, the ground around the altar was filled with satanic imps, dancing and leaping and laughing wickedly.

The wind picked up, slamming its strength and coldness over the land, blowing first cold, then hot, confusing the elements. Falcon's voice grew stronger, ringing over the night-draped, red-tinged, evil-enveloped countryside.

"Asmodeus! Belial! Beelzebub! Mephistopheles! We who serve you implore you to rip away the veil and send all the forces to us. We are in need of the help only you can send. We stand in awe of your majestic power, Great One, and pray through the blackness you hear our cries."

Falcon turned, signaling for the second girl to be brought to the altar. She was dragged, screaming, to the dark flat stone, her clothing ripped from her, exposing her nakedness to the cold-hot winds and the hungry eyes of the worshipers of filth. Her breasts had just begun to bud, and only the lightness of down touched her apex. The dead girl, pale and bloodless, ghostly white, was rudely tossed to the ground. A Beast ran forward, grabbed the girl, and raced back to the outer circle. There, she was devoured, the flesh stripped from her, stuffed into drooling mouths.

The screaming girl, no more than a child, was positioned on the altar, legs spread wide apart. Falcon leaped upon the altar, lifting his robe, exposing his maleness, jutting and throbbing with power.

"For you, Master," Falcon said. "Only for you." He positioned himself and hunched savagely.

The girl's wailing echoed around the stones and the barren earth as Falcon split her, blood leaking from her torn vagina. Falcon pushed deeper.

"It's cold," the girl shrieked. "Cold! God—help me!"

Members of the Dark Coven laughed at her pitiful cries for help, shouting profanities and blasphemies at her, their hooting and laughing sullying the red night.

The laughter and the cursing increased with each lunge from Falcon, each push that brought wails of pain from the child. Th« flickering flames from the torches seemed to join and mingle with the bloody red of the sky.

Sam then noticed the third girl. She had gradually slipped back from the men who had brought her, moving no more than an inch or two each time. They had not noticed her, all their attentions riveted on the scene of rape and defilement on the now bloody altar.

"She's going to make a break for it," Sam muttered. "I'll bet you that's Janet. I've got to help her."

"Sam … !" Nydia protested.

"No. It's something I have to do. She's suffered enough."

The look in Linda's eyes was strange: a mixture of loathing and respect.

"I'm going down to that second ridge," Sam pointed, checking the Thompson. The full drum was fitted in the belly of the SMG, the canvas pouch filled with clips on Sam's belt. He turned to look at Nydia.

"I will be back," he said.

"I know," she said, then stood and watched him slowly make his way down the gently sloping hill until he was lost from view, the red darkness swallowing him.

The circle of dancers pushed forward as Falcon began his climax, withdrew, and stepped from the altar, wiping his bloody penis on the rag that was once the young girl's shirt. Janet did not move with the crowd, staying in place, half hidden just outside the limit of the torchlight.

A huge wooden cross was carried to the altar, driven upside down behind the dark and bloodied stone. The girl was jerked from the altar and dragged to the cross. Strong hands held her upside down as hammers and spikes began their gruesome work. Her screaming as she was crucified seemed to fill the small valley. She was left hanging upside down, spikes in her hands and feet, to wail out what life was left in her.

But it was not yet over for the girl. They would return to her one more time.

"Send us the demons!" Falcon said, his voice carrying full and strong. "Send them, 0, Great One."

The sky became entirely red, its bloody hues casting dark shadows over the grounds. The rats and bats ceased their scurrying and flapping, the imps were silent, and the only sound to be heard was the moaning of the girl behind the altar. Nailed to a cross.

Janet slipped deeper into the shadows. She looked toward the ridge where she had seen a flash of light reflecting off metal. She moved toward the high ground, moving slowly, attracting no attention.

Sam waited.

Linda moved up silently behind Nydia, her fists balled.

"Now!" Falcon screamed the one-word plea.

"Now!" the crowded circle, one massed ring of evil, echoed.

The sky seemed to split wide open. Great stinking clouds of evil-smelling gas settled over the estate of the Devil. Janet edged deeper into the dark red of false night, moving faster now, her youth giving added strength to her legs.

Great grotesque creatures filled the sky: two-headed amphisbaena were flung out of the gaseous mist; reptilian basilisks coiled and hissed and rolled to earth; winged, clawed griffins flapped and settled on the ground, fire and filth snorting from the demon head; the deformed and monstrous su, with its feathered tail and horned head suddenly appeared around the circle, its mighty claws digging into the ground; the gulon, a creature so hideous as to be indescribable howled as it came to earth from behind the hot curtain of Hell; the clawed, many-headed hydra came to rest on earth, its hideousness only slightly less than the Great Rukh that beat its way to earth, its feathers still smoking from the pits; the owls and ravens and centaurs and satyrs and hyenas joined the now crowded circle, all gathering around the cross where the girl hung in torment, spikes holding her upside down, the blood leaking from the wounds, dripping into her eyes.

"Black!" Falcon called. "Come. It is time for the final act."

The young man stepped forward, a sadistic gleam in his eyes, a sharp curved knife in his hands. The girl began wailing as the blade cut strips of flesh from her body, cutting tracings of vulgar images in her skin. Black chanted as he worked, with Falcon beside him, calling on all the dark forces of the netherworld. The rite, as old as this world, was finally concluded. Then, with no thought of mercy, Black cut out the girl's heart and he and Falcon ate the still trembling muscle.

The warrior was near, watching, trembling with dark rage and hate swelling within him. But the mighty warrior from the firmament was powerless to interfere. He had to turn away from the bloody scene of sacrilege, for his eyes and thoughts could kill … and as much as he wanted to do just that ... it was not his place to do so.

Yet.

Janet lay beside Sam on the ridge overlooking the scene of outrage. Sam had fought back the temptation to raise the Thompson and blow the Devil worshipers back to Hell. But the range was far too great, and besides, he knew it was not yet time for that. He would have to wait.

"Come on," he whispered to the girl. "Let's go." "Are we going to be all right?" Janet asked. "I'm … kind of hurt from what they did to me, you know?"

"I think we're going to make it," Sam took her small hand in his. "Come on."

On the far ridge, Nydia turned just as Linda's hands reached for her. Their eyes met. "I know what you are," she said. "And I'll knock the shit out of you if you try it."

WEDNESDAY MORNING DAWN

Sam had led them several miles from the site of depravity, camping deep in the thick timber. They had slept in sleeping bags, on ground sheets, no canvas over them. Sam had sensed there had been trouble between Nydia and Linda, but when he asked Nydia about it, she would merely shrug.

When Janet had learned of Nydia's true identity, she shrank back from her, not wanting the daughter of Roma to touch her … and for some reason, unexplained, Linda did not want to go near Janet.

Sam lost his temper. "What in the hell is wrong with you?" he asked Linda. "Do you realize this kid has been through hell, literally? Damnit, she doesn't have some … social disease."

Linda didn't back away from the angry young man. "And have you considered this: she may be one of them."

"You're crazy!" the young girl cried. "Do you have any idea what they did to me? What it was like?"

Linda shuddered and for some unexplained reason moaned softly.

"… I'm still bleeding from what they did to me. What's wrong with you: are you one of them?"

"How dare you!" Linda drew back her hand to slap the child. Sam's quick hand stopped the blow. Janet darted behind him, peeking around his waist. She stuck out her tongue at the older woman and made a horrible face at her.

Nydia laughed at the girl's antics.

"None of that, Linda," Sam warned her. "I won't have it."

Linda spun around and stalked away, back to her bedroll. Sam turned, putting his arm around the child. "I think I can understand how you feel about Nydia, honey, but you're wrong about her. Flat out wrong." Then he told her what Roma had done to him, and what Falcon had done to Nydia. The girl could only shake her head in horror.

"Where did those other girls come from?" Sam asked.

"One from Montreal, the other from New York. They grabbed me in Montpelier. I was on my way to school." She looked at Linda, sitting with her face averted, a pout to her lips. "I'd like to slap her. She doesn't know what it was like … back there. And I hope to God I'll be able to someday forget it." She looked up at Sam, tall and strong.

"We'll get out," he assured her. "Go on to Nydia, now."

The child smiled, the first time since joining the group. "Can't I wait just a little bit longer before I do? I mean, Roma is her mother, and Roma watched some while that Karl was … doing it to me. I mean … she even came to us once and … and held his … thing. She did something to make him … ready. Then she laughed while he … put it in me. I just can't go to your friend now. Please understand."

Sam could sense the child was very close to tears. "Okay." he said gently. "Sure. Want to stay with me for a time?"

She hesitantly put her slender arms around his waist. She looked very much like a ragamuffin, for she had been half naked when she slipped away from the circle of worshipers. She was not a large child, and Nydia's shirt was far too large, as were the jeans from Nydia. The jacket sleeves were rolled and pinned back, the hip-length coat hanging past the child's knees. "Yes," she looked at him through soft eyes, "I think I'd like that."

"My time is growing short, darling," Jane Ann spoke her thoughts aloud.

"I will be with you all I am allowed to be," Balon projected his reply.

"Even … there?" She tilted her head, indicating the outside.

"Especially there. But I am not permitted to be with you constantly."

She did not ask why that was. "It will not be easy for you, will it, Sam? Watching me, I mean."

"Not easy."

"I … will try to be brave."

"They will want you to scream, to beg for mercy, to weep."

"I will not give them the satisfaction."

There was no response from Balon.

"Sam?"

"I'm here."

"Should I?"

"Should you what?"

"Scream, beg, cry?"

"I cannot answer that. That is your decision alone."

"Was my sin so great thai I must endure this?" "Perhaps, Jane Ann, sin has nothing to do with it. Have you thought of that?"

"I don't understand."

"Millions of people, for thousands of years, have died for God. Do you think all of them were hopeless sinners? Beyond saving?"

"But didn't most of them die because of their belief in God?"

"Not necessarily. Many of them died because of their strength."

"Sam! You're speaking in riddles."

"No, I'm not."

Jane Ann was thoughtful for a moment. "Strength? Are you saying that . . . because I'm the youngest of the … survivors I am better able to endure the pain and humiliation of what lies just ahead of me? If so, I still do not understand why it has to be."

The mist that was Balon was steady, with no thrusting reply.

"All right. But tell me this, if you can: part of … this does have something to do with sin—right or wrong?"

"In part."

"Whose sins?"

"Yours, mine … others."

Her last question was asked softly, and it was filled with love. "Why do I get this feeling I am dying partly for you, Sam?"

The mist could not lie. It stirred, then projected: "Because you are."

Jane Ann smiled. "Then my dying will be so much easier."

"Let me tell you something, Janey. This does not have to be. You, Wade, Miles, Anita, Doris … all are assured a place in Heaven."

"I know that, Sam Balon."

"Then … ?"

"I love you."

WEDNESDAY NOON

"Sam?" Nydia spoke from the rear of the short column, "How far are we from the main house?" "Five or six miles, I'd guess."

"You said we would encounter boundaries. Where are they?"

"Honey," there was an edge to his voice. "I don't know. We'll know them when we see them."

"I'm tired," Janet said. "And I'm hurting real bad." Linda looked at her, a strange light in her eyes. Then unexpected, she walked to the child's side and put her arms around her. Janet smiled up at her.

"We're all tired and edgy," Nydia said. "Let's take a short break, Sam."

But the rest was to be a very short one. Sam had just eased out of the straps of his heavy pack when he heard a sound to his left, slightly behind him. He tensed, thumbing the Thompson off safety. He spun, throwing himself to one side, coming up on one knee, the SMG leveled, on full auto.

What he saw numbed him momentarily.

A demon griffin, a winged horror that, until now, had been only a part of mythology. Its ugly head lowered, the creature charged Sam, howling as it came.

Sam pulled the trigger, a one second burst of heavy, .45 caliber slugs. The griffin screamed, humanlike, and fell to its knees, blood gushing out of the holes in its chest and throat. It kicked on the cold forest floor for a few seconds, then, with a terrible shrieking, it beat its wings and died.

"What in the name of God is that thing?" Sam asked.

Only one among them knew the answer to that, but she had no intention of explaining.

Nydia screamed, Sam whirling around. Rats had encircled the young girl, and Nydia was beating at them with a stick. Linda stood with her back to a tree, her face pale with terror. The rats, much larger and bolder than their earthbound cousins, seemingly had no fear of humans, and no interest in attacking anyone other than Janet. The child was kicking at them with her tennis shoes. One of the rodents leaped at her, yellow teeth snapping.

Sam slapped it to the ground and stomped on it with a heavy jump boot, smashing the guts from the devilish rodent. He looked up, and only then did he see the white slash on the bark of a tree about fifty yards from their rest stop.

Fifty yards behind them.

"Run!" Sam yelled, grabbing up his pack. "Get the weapons and the packs and run. Toward that big oak," he pointed. "Get past it."

Nydia grabbed Linda and shoved her into action literally forcing her to stop and pick up her pack and the shotgun she was carrying.

The rats pursued them to the slash-marked tree, but would not attack them once they had passed the line. The rodents raced back into the forest.

Janet looked at the slash on the tree. Whatever, or whomever had marked the tree had done so with a mighty sword or knife, wielded with awesome power. "Those boundaries you people were talking about? I think we found them."

Sam lay on the ground sheet, his head resting on his pack. His thoughts were many. It was late afternoon, and turning colder. Already a few flakes of snow had fallen, and it felt as if it might start snowing in earnest at any moment. If that happened, he would have to build a fire and a lean-to. The lean-to didn't worry him, but a fire might bring some unwelcome visitors.

Why are they waiting? he mused. We are few and they are many, and with their powers, they must know where we are. Surely they can't be that afraid of me?

"Do not flatter yourself so, young warrior," the voice boomed into Sam's head. "It is I they fear."

"I wondered where you had gotten off to," Sam spoke, oblivious to the others looking at him, listening to the one-sided conversation.

"I have been busy. Now hear me, young one: you must be on guard, but you need not fear the evil forces as much as you believe. I will take care of those spawns of hell. They will harass you, worry you, but they won't harm you—if you remain careful and maintain your faith."

"You mean, I can kill them, but they can't kill me, or us?"

"I didn't say that."

Sam sighed, an exasperating expulsion of breath, "Riddles again, huh?"

"Only if you believe they are riddles."

"Study your words, huh?"

"That is correct."

"Is it against the policy of … Him for you to come right out and say things in an understandable fashion?"

"How like your father you are."

"You hedged the question."

"Correct. Young warrior," the voice held a slight note of puzzlement. "I have spoken to many mortals over these thousands of years, but you baffle me."

"How?"

"You aren't afraid of me."

"Why should I be? You're on my side, aren't you?"

And if that force that sits by the right hand of God, that force of all that is good and pure and just, could chuckle, it did. "Confidence is good, of course, all great warriors must possess it, but don't allow it to cloud your judgment."

"I don't intend to do that. But I will tell you this much: as soon as I get some sign from you, or the feeling is right—whatever—I'm goin' to Falcon House and kill every swinging di … uh … everybody in there."

Again, Sam got the impression the mighty voice was laughing.

"With the jawbone of an ass?"

"Did that really happen?"

"In a manner of speaking, certainly."

Sam held up the Thompson. "I'll start with this … no telling what I might end up with, though."

"Live a good, strong, healthy, productive life, offspring of Sam Balon. And when your time on earth is over, I will personally welcome you home."

"My time on earth could very well be short."

"That is entirely possible."

"Tell me something."

"If it is permitted."

"Am I really speaking with you? Are you Michael? And will I remember any of this—if I get out alive, that is?"

"You ask probing questions, young warrior. Inquiries I am forbidden to answer."

"I won't ask why."

"Wise of one so young."

"Instead I'll ask this: when do I start my mission?"

"You have wards to look after, lives in your care. A flock, if you will. But remember this: sometimes a wolf may disguise itself to enter the flock. And a cabin of evil may sometimes be turned into a fortress of truth. If you desire, you may begin whenever you are ready." The voice faded away.

"Sam?" Nydia said, watching the young man she loved get to his feet. "What are you going to do?"

"Start a war," he said quietly.

THURSDAY MORNING

The weather had held for the good, and they rested and slept on ground sheets, in sleeping bags. Sam had talked long into the night with Nydia, with her asking all the voice had said.

"There is only one cabin on our land," she told him. "That I know of, and I think I would know of any others. That's several miles north of the house. Falcon had it built. It's quite cozy."

Sam glanced at the sun peeking through the tall timber. "If we head due west, we should hit the cabin. With any luck," he added.

"You think that's what the voice was saying?"

"Honey, I just don't know. I've studied his words, over and over. That's the only thing I can think of. As for that bit about a fortress of truth … I don't know."

"Well … I'm ready anytime you are," she said.

He grinned at her.

"No way," she said, verbally tossing cold water on him.

"Ever since we witnessed that … display in the Heavens, Ralph, you've been moody. Out of sorts. What's the matter, honey?"

"You remember I went into town the next morning?"

"Yes."

"Well, I made some phone calls; I made about a dozen phone calls. Charged them on our credit card." He grinned ruefully. "Our phone bill next month should be a real doozie. I called four stargazers in America, one in Canada, the rest overseas and in South America." He looked at his wife. When he again spoke, his words were soft. "All that activity we watched: the sky changing colors, the plumes of dirty … smoke—whatever it was; those odd, unexplainable occurrences … everything. Betty, we were the only ones to have witnessed anything unusual that night. The only ones in … this … world!"

"That's impossible," she protested. "Ralph, it went on for more than an hour! Somebody, somewhere, has to have seen it."

He solemnly shook his head. "No one I spoke with. And I talked with the best people in the business."

"1 … don't understand, Ralph. We certainly didn't dream what we witnessed. That was a heavenly phenomenon unequalled … well, by anything I've ever seen or read of. I'm sorry the camera malfunctioned and we didn't get it."

"If the camera malfunctioned," he said. "Remember, the film I shot back at the observatory came out blank, as well.''

"The people you talked with … could they be holding back? Deliberately holding back? Maybe to do a paper on the sightings?"

"I thought of that with the first two I spoke with," he admitted. "But a dozen people? No." He sighed. "So, that brings it right back to us."

She sat beside him, taking his hands in hers. "You weren't alone in seeing that … sighting several days before this one."

"No."

"Why then and not last evening?"

Ralph was silent for a moment; reflective in his quiet musings. "Don't think me a fool for saying this, Betty, and rest assured you will be the only person to ever hear this from my lips, but … all right, charge ahead and get it said.

"Betty … we're Christians. Maybe not the best in the world, but we do try. We're believers, let's call it. So perhaps what I witnessed previously … no, not perhaps—I know I saw the face of God. It was magnificent … holy … even though He appeared to be quarreling with … somebody … something. What we witnessed the other night … well, have you given any thought to that being … from the other world?"

"What other world, Ralph?"

"Hell."

By noon, Sam had brought in enough wood to last the women several days. There was plenty of oil for the lamps, candles should they need them, and ample fuel for the portable stoves and lanterns. He took a can of that for his own use. There was plenty of canned food in the cabin. There was no more Sam could do, but he was hesitant to leave the warmth and safety of the cabin … even more hesitant to leave Nydia. Looking at her, sitting quietly in a chair by the fire, Sam realized just how much he loved her, and knew that that love—right or wrong, morally—was growing each day.

She met his tender gaze. "It's time for you to go, Sam."

"I know."

"We'll be all right," she said. "We have weapons, and 1 know how to use them. And," she blinked away sudden tears, "you have a job to do. Time is growing short, I believe."

"Yes," he agreed, still reluctant to leave.

"I packed the holy water as carefully as I could. You're sure you have everything else you'll need?"

He nodded his head.

"I love you, Sam."

"And I love you, Nydia."

"Go with God," she said, her voice breaking.

Without looking back, Sam opened the door and stepped out into the cold air. He quietly closed the door behind him, jacked a round into the chamber of the old Thompson, slipped the SMG on safety, and walked down the path, heading toward Falcon House. The young man had a mission few would envy.

To meet the Devil.

A thousand miles away, the Coven was resting in and around Whitfield. The members, hundreds of them, were, to a person, exhausted after a night of debauchery, torture, and depravity. Their clothing reeked of filth and sin, for none among them had bathed in a week. The stink of the Devil worshipers and the smell of rotting flesh hung over the town like an ominous cloud called into being from the drum and cannon of a depraved rainmaker. The Coven members lay in sleep where they had fallen in exhaustion, stinking breathing heaps of wickedness … who would soon learn the awesome furious power of God's retributive wrath toward those who serve another Master.

In the Lansky home, the four people sat quietly. They listened to the almost too loud ticking of the old grandfather clock.

On the porch steps of the Lansky home, the Clay Man was immobile. He waited.

Jane Ann sat, reading from the Bible, reading the verses the mist that was Balon had directed her to read. She read, gaining inner strength for the ordeal that faced her. Soon.

And in the firmament, the Ruler of All Things, all planets, gave a rumbling command. A dead star sprang into life, billions and billions of miles from the planet known as earth. The bit of rock began to glow and smoke, and it began its journey slowly.

A creature from another time, another world, sprang onto the path Sam trod. It roared and clawed the earth. But Sam had studied the words of the warrior and understood at least part of them. He stood his ground, glaring at the gulon, a hideous mixture of the hyena and the lion.

"You can harm me only if I cease to believe in God's word, God's love, God's power, and God's protection," Sam said to the creature. "And I will never stop believing in Him. So get out of my way and get back to Hell where you belong."

The creature turned its tail and slipped back into the timber, afraid of this mortal with God's protection against its kind.

"Personally," the voice came to Sam, "I would have fought the ugly beast of Hell."

"To each his own." Sam continued walking.

"The house, the few acres around it, and those who live with evil in it are yours. All else is mine."

"Going to destroy the Devil's spawn?"

"Yes. Those that were called."

"There are more of those … things?"

"As many as a nonbeliever wishes there to be."

"Someday—not soon, I hope—I'm going to have a long talk with you."

The mighty warrior could have told Sam when that time would be, but that was forbidden. Not that the warrior always obeyed the rules, for he did not. But … most of them.

The warrior faded and was gone from Sam's consciousness. But he watched the young warrior stride purposefully down the path. He could not tell him of the pain that awaited him; could not relate the horrors that would confront him. But the warrior felt the young one could cope. He would be bloodied, but with his head not bowed in subservience to that filthy rabble of the Hooved One.

A mile from the cleared ground of the mansion, Sam stopped for a rest, and to prepare some equipment. He carefully checked the old Thompson and his father's .45 pistol. He tested the edge to his knife. He bloused his jeans in his jump boots, retying the boot laces, securing them. He had filled half a dozen small bottles with the highly flammable portable stove fuel, and he checked them for breakage, repacking them carefully. He stood up, reached inside his jacket, and pulled out his black wool Ranger beret, with his old unit crest attached. He settled the beret on his head, took a deep breath, and walked down the path.

He was as ready as he knew how to be.

"He's coming," Karl spoke to Falcon, utilizing a handheld handy-talkie.

Falcon stood in front of the window of his quarters; Karl was hidden in the timber, waiting with other men to ambush Sam.

Falcon knew where Nydia and the others were, just as he knew his Master had instructed the bitch to watch out for Nydia's well-being, in case Falcon's seed had overpowered Sam's weak flow of semen and she was with demon, as Roma felt her daughter was.

Falcon also knew the fight that Sam was bringing to the grounds was to the death. And the young man was without fear. He was cautious, but not fearful. Falcon had observed, with the help of his Master's all-powerful eye, the young warrior face down the gulon, the creature slinking off into the timber, back to its hiding place.

And the old warrior, the Mighty One's favorite archangel was here, rubbing his hands together, looking forward to a good scrap, spoiling for a good fight with God's most hated enemy.

It had not gone as planned, Falcon sighed. We have a good chance of winning this fight; the odds are still in our favor, but …

He chose not to think of the alternative.

"Be careful, Karl," he spoke into the handy-talkie. "The young man is dangerous, and he has been well trained for battle. And something else: he has been tested in actual combat; he has killed, and he will not lose his courage."

"Bah!" the man dismissed Falcon's warnings. "He is too young to be that dangerous."

Fool! Falcon thought. "Sam Balon's offspring is a combat-tested, ex-Army Ranger, you idiot. With several special warfare schools behind him. Don't underestimate him.''

"We lost him!" Karl's excited voice belched from the speaker. "He was in sight just a moment ago. Where'd he go?"

"Probably coming up behind you, you clod! The young man is a trained guerrilla fighter." Falcon opened the window facing the woods just in time to hear the sounds of gunfire. "Damn!" he muttered.

Sam had been expecting an ambush and had been watching closely for any signs of one. He had spotted the movement of bushes ahead of him and darted off the path, coming up softly behind the men. The young man had been well trained, and terms of surrender was the last thing on his mind. He raised the SMG and blew the men into the arms of their chosen God.

Sam eased his way up to the fallen men. Blood, bits of bone, and gray matter were splattered on the trees and the ground beneath the men. One man was alive; he raised his hand and groaned.

"Help me," he pleaded.

"Certainly," Sam said. He shot the man between the eyes.

The Old Warrior smiled grimly, thinking: I have no need to worry about this young warrior. Then he was off, searching the timber, sword in hand, looking for a fight with the forces of evil.

Sam picked up a rifle lying beside one of the bodies and inspected it for damage. The bolt action was a Winchester model 70, .338 magnum, in good shape. He rolled the dead man over and removed a cartridge belt from him, then searched his pockets for more cartridges, finding another boxful in his jacket pocket. Sam left a short-barreled lever-action carbine, and picked up a bolt action .308. The fourth man had been carrying a Weatherby .460.

"Elephant gun," Sam muttered, grinning as he stood among the carnage he had wreaked. "I think I'll find me a nice vantage point and do a bit of sniping."

The first round went through a rear window of the great house, hitting a young woman in the stomach, knocking her backward over a coffee table, the mushrooming slug slamming a hole in her stomach as big as her fist. She lay on the floor, screaming her life away, wailing for her chosen Master to help her … stop the awful pain.

He did not.

"Jimmy!" Falcon roared. "Come here."

The zombielike living dead shuffled into his earth-bound master's quarters.

"What is all that noise?"

"Young Sam Balon on the ridge northeast of the house, sir. Got a rifle."

Another slug came whining through the mansion, ricocheting off a brick of the fireplace and knocking a jagged hole in the wall.

"That son-of-a-bitch!" Falcon cursed him, all the while feeling admiration for the young warrior. "By all that is unholy, why couldn't Black have turned out like him?"

"Because young Black is a schemer and a plotter, sir," Jimmy said.

Falcon turned deathlike eyes on the man. "You know something I need to know, Perkins?"

"He plots against you, Master. With some of the younger members. I heard them talking. I was listening and they did not see me."

"What did they say, Jimmy?"

"Young Black said—told them—he had been in communication with our True Master, and the Master had said young Black could have the Coven should you fail."

"Thank you, Jimmy. Thank you very much. For once your snooping and spying was of service. I have a task for you: go to Roma's quarters. Put her in the center room that is free of windows. She must be protected at all times."

"She is with Demon child, sir?"

"Yes, yes," he said impatiently. "Then, Jimmy, as a reward for your information, tell Judy to come to me. I will instruct her that you are to have her at any time you wish."

"Thank you, Master," Jimmy drooled, the slobber dripping in slick ropes to the floor. "You are kind."

"Yes, yes. Now get moving, you cretin." Falcon stood arrogantly at the open window, waving at the ridge where Sam lay sniping. He felt the tug of the lead as it passed through his body. He howled with dark laughter, making an obscene gesture toward the ridge.

Sam watched Falcon through the scope on the .338. The young man was a qualified sniper, having shot for qualification at more than a thousand meters. He knew perfectly well if the weapon was adequate and sighted in. Using the right ammunition—which he was—he could hit anything he could see. And he knew he had hit Falcon.

"Sure, dummy!" he berated himself. "Don't you remember all those monster movies? You can't kill a vampire with anything other than a stake through the heart or a silver bullet, and I sure don't have any silver bullets." There on the wind-swept ridge, cold in the winter sun, Sam chuckled, then wondered about his sanity, laughing at a time like this. "Where are you, Lone Ranger, now that I need you?"

He again laughed. "That's me, a lone Ranger." He shook his head, wondering if the stress was getting to him?

No, he thought. No, it's just like my instructor said about me, back at Fort Benning. "The kid is a natural-born killer."

The remark had gotten back to Sam, and the young man had accepted it. He knew he was different from most; knew that, discovering it early, 'way back in grade school, when an older, larger boy had jumped him for no reason other than the bigger boy was a bully. Sam had picked up a club and bopped the bully on the side of the head with it, dropping him like a felled tree. "He started it," Sam told the principal. "I don't believe in fair fights. I believe there is a winner and a loser … and he lost."

"You're not sorry for what you've done?" the principal questioned. "The boy is in the hospital with a fractured skull."

"No, I'm not sorry. That's his problem."

Sam had taken his licking from the principal without flinching. But he thought it unfair, and told his parents his thoughts.

"Just like his father," Tony had snorted, then walked from the room.

That was about the time, Sam remembered, lying on the cold, windy ridge, that Tony began to change, young Sam hearing rumors about his stepfather's sexual antics. And that was the time a lot of other people began to slowly change. Sam let his thoughts drift back in spurts, short bursts of remembrance, then back to the present, keeping alert. The ministers began complaining of a lack of attentiveness among many of the churchgoers. Some of the churches closed their doors, others got ministers that Christians whispered about, questioning the men's faith.

But his mother had told him, "Just watch your temper, Sam. You're a lot like your father, Sam Balon."

"Is that good or bad?" Sam had asked his mother.

She had smiled, and Sam remembered how pretty she was. "Oh, honey—I think it's wonderful."

Sam pulled his attentions back to the present and chambered a round in the .338. He would have to move just at dusk, changing positions, for he knew they would be sending people in after him. Then he smiled. He'd have a nice surprise waiting for them.

He slipped from the ridge and set about cutting off small limbs, sharpening them. He whistled as he worked.

THURSDAY NIGHT

The hoarse bellow of pain drifted over the darkness of the land. Again and again the screaming spiked the night. Before the echoes of the first howling had died away, another yowl of pain ripped the gloom cast by the shadows of the tall timber. The line of men stopped and backtracked to the clearing behind the mansion, one running for the huge house, fear hastening his feet.

"What is all that screaming and howling?" Falcon asked.

Gulping for air, the Devil-worshiper gasped, "The Christians, sir. He's … put out traps for us. Awful things. Like they used in Vietnam. Punji pits. And he's got swing traps set all over the place; and wire stretched ankle high, too."

"He has what!"

"The wire or rope, sir, is stretched tight, ankle high; man trips, falls forward onto sharpened stakes driven in the ground. The swing traps, sir … you take a stick and tie half a dozen smaller, sharpened sticks to it, about six inches apart. Then you bend a limber sapling back and fix your trap with rope or rawhide. Man triggers the trap, the limb pops forward, coming real fast. King's got them rigged stomach high. It's bad, sir. I never seen nothing like it. You told us this would be easy. You said …"

"All right, all right," Falcon waved him silent. "Stop your babbling and whimpering, man. Get control of yourself. Pull the men back. We won't do anything until morning."

"No, sir, Mr. Falcon," the man stood his ground, "I'm going to have my say on this."

Falcon almost sent him scorching his way to Hell, in :he form of a roach, but he held his temper in check. Things were going badly enough without a revolt among the ranks. "Very well—speak."

"All them monsters and demons and things we helped call out? Well … they're runnin' around like scared chickens. In a blind panic. And do you know why? Well, I'll tell you: 'cause something is after them. There's some … thing out there in the deep timber. I never seen nothing like it in my life."

Falcon suspected what it was. "What do you mean? Speak more descriptively, man. What kind of … thing?"

"Well, it ain't human. I don't know what he is. Wears a gown or a robe; carries the biggest sword I ever seen. Damn thing's five feet long—glows. This thing … laughs; and when he does, it thunders. He's killed a hundred or more of them big monsters. The imps are hiding, so are the satyrs. The centaurs have stampeded, whatever those stupid-looking fuckers do. Everybody getting uptight, sir. You gotta do something." Falcon stared the man down, until the frightened Devil-worshiper dropped his eyes. "I shall do something, Karl. But for now, pull your people back to the house. We all need a good night's rest."

When the man had gone, Falcon allowed himself the first taste of fear, of failure, and it was bitter on his tongue. Ugly. He could understand the fear of the forces in the timber. Even the Beasts had refused to leave their caves. While no mortal could kill Falcon with any conventional weapon, the warrior could. And would. If Falcon was foolish enough to leave the house and go traipsing into the timber. And Falcon dared not call on the Master for more help, for that would be admitting failure, and he would be sent back to the netherworld.

Oh, how Black must be enjoying this! Falcon's thoughts were foul, his mood savage and bitter. Grist for his cunning, scheming mill.

Somehow, Falcon mused, I must draw Sam into the house. Once in here, I have a plan, and I will win.

But how to draw him in?

Falcon decided to rest on the matter.

But no one got much rest that night. Every fifteen minutes, on the dot, rifle slugs would pock the house, seeking entrance through the darkened windows. Then Sam would change the timetable, and every five minutes his rifle would roar. And then he would be silent for a half hour. Then firing every minute. One man was hit through the stomach when he recklessly exposed himself in front of a window, light behind him. One young member of the Coven took splinters of wood into his eyes, blinding him. Another was shot through the head as she tried to peek over a windowsill.

On the ridge above the house, Sam smiled grimly, knowing full well the nerve-rattling psychological game he was playing.

In the deep timber, the once tranquil forest floor began to resemble a bloody, stinking battlefield as the Warrior wielded his mighty flashing sword as if God's fury was controlling each devastating swing of the blade.

The creatures of the evil calling were running and flapping and scurrying and lumbering and galloping in all directions, fleeing the awesome sword in the hands of the warrior they knew they could not best.

The mightiest of all God's warriors strode through the forest, shouting in a voice only the godless could hear. He roared at them to stand and fight; he insulted their courage with oaths that made God cringe in the firmament, thinking: I will have to speak to the old warrior about that … again.

The warrior rained down slurs upon the od forces' master. But still they ran in fear. Roaring his rage, the sky thundering from the echo of the mighty voice, the warrior stamped the evil life from the rats that scampered in fright beneath his great feet; the bats swirled overhead, screeching their fear, not understanding this manner of man who roared at them, disturbing their inner radar, causing many to slam into trees. Those that were left went flapping back to the warp in time that had allowed them entrance to this place.

And when the forest was quiet, rid, for the most part, of the forces of the netherworld, the old warrior rested, quite pleased with his work this night.

He did so enjoy a good fight.

FRIDAY MORNING

Sam catnapped from four in the morning until the first red streaks of dawn filtered through the timber. He cautiously moved a mile from his resting place before he squatted down and ate a sandwich Nydia had fixed him, washing it down with cold water from his canteen. With that in his stomach to soften the blow of the diet pill, Sam took one of Nydia's amphetamines, knowing he had to be alert, and knowing he had not had the rest to maintain the vigil he must keep … in order to stay alive and win this fight.

He smiled at the carnage that lay on the soft blanket that was the forest floor. The warrior had indeed meant his words when he said he was going to destroy the Devil's spawn.

Sam inspected the dead creatures, and found them to be as hideous in death as they were in life. So there was some truth to what is mistakenly called mythology, he concluded. The scientists and the professors and the arrogant atheists aren't as wise as they profess to be.

"So what else is new?" he muttered.

He left the dead ugliness of the Devil to rot and made his way back to a ridge, this one on the east side of the huge mansion. It was by far the best vantage point he'd found, for his shooting distance was shorter, and he would be able to see if anyone tried to slip from the house and circle around behind him.

Smiling, he noticed a bell hanging from the rear of the house. Nydia had said it was very old, an antique her mother had picked up in Europe—Holland, she'd said. Sam jacked a round into the heavy, .460, braced himself for the recoil, and sighted in the bell. "Ring my bell," he muttered, then gently squeezed the trigger, allowing the weapon to fire itself.

The bell clanged, then jumped from its bracings, blown from the brackets by the force of the heavy slug. But the men and women of the Coven, trapped inside the mansion, were ready for Sam this time. From every window came an answering volley of shots, forcing Sam to scamper back below the lip of the ridge. He crawled to the slight protection of a small clump of trees and carefully eased his way forward, until he could see the house. He sighted in one man, firing from the third floor, and eased the trigger back. The butt pounded his shoulder. But Sam had been shooting downhill, the scope adjusted for that angle, and his shot was high, not catching the man in the chest, but in the throat, almost decapitating the Coven. The .460 slug flung the man backward, his bubbling scream cut off before it could reach his lips.

Sliding backward, Sam changed positions, running several hundred feet before dropping to the earth and easing his way up to the crest of the ridge.

He spent the morning harassing those in the mansion, but taking no great personal risk in doing so. He knew he would have to go inside the mansion, and he was not looking forward to that, for that would put him on Falcon's territory, and the warlock would then have the advantage. But as long as he could, Sam intended to cut the odds … down, at least make it fifty/fifty, even-up, the scales tilting in no one's direction.

NOON, FRIDAY

Jane Ann heard the clock chime its chilling message. Noon. Odd, she thought, I've always loved that old clock. Now, I hate it. Then from the outside, she heard a low chanting coming from the center of the small, doomed town, growing stronger and louder with each heartbeat. 5he listened until she could make out the words.

"Praise him that is our Master," they chanted. "Now the Christian whore dies. Praise the Hooved One."

The chant was repeated, over and over, until it became a maddened drone in Jane Ann's head. She looked for the mist that was Balon, and was not surprised to find him gone. He had warned her she would have to face some of he ordeal alone. She stood up, moving to the front door. She had taken a long hot bath, fixed her hair, and done her nails. She had put on her best dress, her best jewelry, and now stood facing the door, her Bible in her hand.

Waiting.

"Why does this have to be?" Miles asked the misty face of Balon.

The mist stirred but projected no reply. "I will, if not gladly, certainly willingly take her place," Wade said. "And I know I speak for all here, we've all talked about it."

"That cannot be."

"Why, for God's sake?" Anita asked.

"Precisely the reason."

"Sam, you're speaking in riddles," Miles accused him.

"No. You are perceiving them as puzzles, that's all."

"She's dying for us, isn't she, Sam?" Doris asked.

"Yes."

"But there is more to it than that, isn't there, Sam?" Wade asked.

"Yes."

"She's dying for you, isn't she, Sam?" Miles' words were softly spoken, and not accusatory.

When Balon thrust his reply, the one word was charged with emotion: "Yes!"

The long filthy line of Satanists stopped in front of the house. The chanting ceased. The town grew quiet.

"Hey, bitch!" a man's husky voice called. "Get your ass out of that house. It's your time."

"Yeah," another called. "And you might as well step out of them panties 'fore you do, 'cause you gonna be out of them damn quick."

Ugly laughter rang in Jane Ann's ears.

The petite lady stepped out of her house, onto the porch, facing the ugly crowd. She was jerked from the porch, seized by dirty, rough hands, manhandled profanely. As if envious of her neat appearance, a woman reached out and quickly mussed her hair. Hard male hands roamed over her body.

"Take her to the circle of stones," Jean Zagone commanded. "The Digging." She stood in front of Jane Ann, hate shining from her dark eyes. She spat in Jane Ann's face, the spittle dripping from the smaller woman's cheek. "It's going to be fun listening to you beg, Christian cunt."

Jane Ann's reply was calm. "That will never happen. I can't say I won't scream. But I can assure you, with the Love of God in my heart, I will never beg."

Jean slapped her, her hard hand rocking the woman backward. "Take her."

Laying on the ridge facing the house, something very cold touched Sam's heart. His big hands gripped the rifle until his fingers ached from the strain. "Mother," he whispered.

The scene in Whitfield was suddenly played before his eves, a five-second burst of reality. Then it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

Sam put his forehead on the ground and allowed himself the denied luxury of tears.

A rifle shot from the house, spitting dirt onto his face, brought him back to his own reality.

The young man cut his eyes upward. "I guess You have Your reasons."

She wondered how long she had been here. Wondered if it was hours, or days. Another man fell on her bruised nakedness, spreading her legs, forcing his way into her, grunting his dubious pleasure as he worked in and out of her. Jane Ann had learned early on that to fight them only meant more pain, with the end result being the same. Better not to resist.

She opened her eyes, watching the last of the sun's rays fade in colors beyond the western horizon. She'd stopped counting the men assaulting her when she reached twenty, and there had been many more after that.

Jake, Jean Zagone's foreman, had been the first, and he had been furious when she did not cry out as he assaulted her.

"Come on, bitch!" he had yelled, plunging his maleness into her. "I bet you ain't never had this much meat before."

And she had made a mistake by saying, "My first husband was bigger."

That had gotten her a hard fist on the jaw.

Jake had then proceeded to tell her—in great detail, with many four-letter words—what he would do to make her beg … later. This was bad enough, Jane Ann thought; she was not at all looking forward to Jake's promise.

The man lunging at her shivered as he ejaculated, and she felt the wetness of him on her thighs, and then the coolness of approaching night fanned her nakedness. Still abnormally warm for this time of year, she thought, then fought to keep a smile from her lips. How ludicrous, she thought. I am lying here on the ground, naked and sore from the assault of … only God knows how many men, wondering what is next for me, and thinking about the weather. I must be going insane.

But she knew she was not losing her mind; knew she had been, as so many prolonged rape victims, learning to detach herself from reality.

She was left alone for a time, lying on the ground next to the dark altar. Someone tossed a stinking rag of a blanket over her, and she closed her eyes.

She must have dozed off, for when she opened her eyes, returning to her world of pain, it was fully dark, the circle of stones torch-lit. Someone kicked her on the buttocks with a sharp-pointed boot. She looked up into he hard, evil eyes of Jake. She let her eyes drift downward to his erect maleness. He held the throbbing organ in one hand, stroking it.

"Get up," he ordered. "And bend over that altar, whore. I'm gonna shove this meat up where I think your God lives. This'll make you beg to Him."

Painfully, stiffly, Jane Ann rose to her feet, looking around her. The crowd had swelled to several hundred men and women, with more arriving each minute. But it was a silent, sullen gathering watching her.

Jake reached out, fondling Jane Ann's breasts, brutally twisting the nipples. She flinched, but made no sound. "Real gutsy gal." He grinned nastily.

He pushed her face down on the altar, her body bent at the waist. Male hands grabbed her wrists, holding her firm. She felt the smaller hands of a woman parting the cheeks of her buttocks, then something hot and hard pushing at her anus.

A moment later, her screams were echoing over the circle of stones, mingling with the dirty laughter of the now huge crowd. She screamed out her pain and humiliation.

But she would not beg.

FRIDAY NIGHT

"You have twenty-four hours, young warrior," the heavy voice boomed into Sam's brain. "Forget the tablet, for it is gone."

"Where is it?"

"Taken by the Dark One."

"Then he must know he is going to lose here?"

"He never loses entirely. Something of importance to him will have been gained here, delivered elsewhere, bursting forth on this earth. Perhaps twice. But time is growing short. Twenty-four hours, young warrior. But you must be gone from this place by the twenty-second hour. Do not ask me why that must be. You have a task before you. Good luck, young warrior."

The force of good was gone.

Sam leaned back against a tree trunk, his mind racing, tossing out ideas and plans almost as soon as they formed. Only one course of action was certain: he had to go inside the mansion.

Sam needed sleep, but was afraid to doze for fear they would find him and kill him. His eyes closed, resting for a moment. Exhaustion quickly overcame anxiety and the young man slept.

The mightiest of all warriors was amused as he watched over his young charge. Sleep for a few hours, young warrior, he thought. I will bend the rules a bit and watch over you. Bending the rules is not that uncommon for me.

Jane Ann lay on her back on the dark alter, blood from her torn anus staining the dark evil stone. She shifted position, softly whimpering as pain cut through her.

"Beg for mercy from your God!" Jean and the others had screamed at her while Jake anally assaulted her.

But Jane Ann had shaken her head no, all the while biting her lips against the pain being forced in and out of her.

When Jake was finished, another took his place, then another … it seemed never to stop.

Jane Ann wept when Tony stepped forward. "I always wanted it this way," he said. "But you never would let me—remember?" His words had been barely audible over the waves of pain washing her. He mounted her brutally, laughing at her cries of pain. "Good, isn't it, baby?" he shouted.

The rape had finally stopped … for a time. Then someone brought a huge artificial penis to Jean, the Coven leader laughing as she strapped it on. "It's better to give than to receive," she said. "Well, baby, receive this."

Jane Ann had passed out from the pain.

And now the words Jane Ann feared were spoken, "Let the black mass begin," Jean said. "Bring the virgin child to the circle."

Jane Ann was jerked from the stone altar and shoved naked into the hands of Coven members. Still their fingers would not stop the seeking of openings to her body. Finally, they tied her hands behind her back, the rope cutting into her flesh. They forced her to kneel before the altar as the black mass began. The Coven members sang their praises to the Dark One. Jane Ann, with a smile on her lips, sang God's hymns in a soft sweet voice. Even when a Coven member urinated on her, she continued to sing praises to her God. Her small soprano voice seemed to carry above the chanting of the hundreds of voices. Her singing infuriated Jean, the woman running to the naked, kneeling Christian, slapping her across the mouth, back-handing her, attempting to still the voice singing praises to a God Jean had rejected years before. But even with blood from smashed lips leaking down her chin, dripping onto bare, bruised breasts, Jane Ann sang to her God.

Jean became wild with fury, striking at Jane Ann with balled fists. Jane Ann slumped to the ground, bright lights popping like painful flashbulbs in her brain. "Shut your goddamned filthy fucking mouth, Christian whore!" Jean screamed. "One of you men come up here and stick a cock in her mouth!"

One did, ramming his maleness into Jane Ann's mouth.

Jane Ann bit him … hard, clamping down like a bulldog, hanging on with her teeth with all the tenacity of a Mississippi River snapping turtle. The man screamed and howled in pain. Jane Ann spat out part of the man's pride and joy.

Jean kicked her in the stomach. Jane Ann fought for breath, gagging and retching on the ground.

A small girl was led crying and whimpering to the black altar. Jane Ann recognized the child as the daughter of a friend. Carol. She was eleven. Jane Ann struggled to her knees. Speaking around the blood in her mouth, she told the child, "I can do … I can only pray for you, Carol."

The man who now possessed only half a penis was still screaming in pain as he was led away.

"Oh, no, Carol," Jean said, patting the girl's head. "She can do so much more than that. She can save you all he pain and hurt. Yes, she can. Just ask her." The child turned anguished eyes to the bound, naked woman kneeling in the dirt. "Do it, Miss Jane Ann. Please?"

"You rotten bitch!" Jane Ann cursed Jean.

The woman laughed and spat at her. "Ball's in your court, now, Miss Prissy Pussy. All you have to do is renounce your faith in your God and the kid goes free. And that message comes straight from the Dark One's lips. How about it? Want to see Big Jake and his friends split this little cunt wide open with those peckers of theirs?"

"1 will not deny my God," Jane Ann said. "And He will not deny me."

"Listen to the little cunt scream for a few hours, bitch, you might change your mind."

"No," Jane Ann said quietly. "I will not."

"Tell me this, Miss Christian Cunt: you people are taught that your God is a just and merciful God. Why then, would He allow this to happen? The rape and torture of a child? Come on, pussy, tell me."

"You know I can't answer that, except to say that after the pain there is a home where there is no pain. Where His people can live in …"

Jean kicked her in the stomach, silencing her. "Oh, don't hand me that mumbo jumbo. I'm sick of hearing all that shit!" She raised her hands into the air. "Let the mass begin."

And the crowd surged forward, all straining to see the girl raped and tortured and offered up to their Dark Master in sacrifice.

Jane Ann had thought the pitiful weeping and screaming of the child would never cease, and she knew she had never before in her life prayed so fervently. Certainly she had never prayed for the death of a child. Until now.

Selected men of the Coven had assaulted the child in every conceivable manner, until her blood dripped from the altar. And Jane Ann had been forced to stand by the altar and watch. She had prayed with her eyes open, for when she shut them a fist would bruise her battered flesh until she opened them.

Just before the hideous sacrifice was to begin, when a chosen member would literally slice strips of flesh from the girl, the child shuddered, gasped once, and died, the blank empty eyes staring at nothing.

"No!" Jean screamed her outrage at this denial.

Jane Ann looked to the Heavens. "Thank you," she said.

Jean spun around, glaring at the smaller woman. "You … you had something to do with her death, didn't you?"

"I certainly hope so," Jane Ann said.

Jean's smile was grim, filled with all the evil within her. She looked at Jake, standing by her side. "Break all her fingers, Jake. One at a time. Do it slowly. Make her beg."

"You must prepare to leave," Falcon stood over Roma's bed. "We cannot risk harm coming to you. I have spoken with the Master, and those are his wishes. He told me you are very susceptible to mortal injury while you are with Demon child."

"True," Roma said, looking up at him. "But where will I go? And how?"

"Use the tunnels. It will be difficult for you, but it is the only way. Now the other thing I must do. I have a plan, but it will mean the death of Black."

She shrugged. "He is worthless. He has plotted against me; plotted against you. Only a few hours ago he gathered some of the ones from school to scheme against you. As Nydia is no longer my daughter, Black is no longer my son. Do with him as you must."

The witch and the warlock locked gazes, their thoughts exposed.

"No," she said. "No, I cannot allow it, Falcon."

"There is no other way."

"I will not permit it. You are a good man, Falcon. A bit vain, perhaps, but all good men are. I will not permit your dying for me."

"I fear I must. For I am the only person in this house capable of besting young Sam. My plan will surely mean my death."

She sighed. "I seem to have played out this scenario before." Her words were ruefully spoken.

Falcon could but shrug. "I have instructed Jimmy and two of the other servants to go with you … see you to safety. We won't see each other again, darling … at least not on this earth."

"Nydia?"

"One of ours is with her, on direct orders from the Master.

"Kill Balon's Christian bastard for me, Falcon. Only for me."

"It will be my pleasure," he said, smiling wickedly, then turned, walking from the room.

Jane Ann lay on the ground, her useless hands by her side. She had never in her life felt such intense pain as when Jake calmly broke her fingers, laughing at her screaming. She had passed out several times, only to be brought back to searing consciousness and harsh awareness by buckets of water being hurled on her nakedness.

She had screamed and she had wept.

But she had not begged.

She had been dragged to the darkness of the outer circle, forced to watch as the Beasts ate the body of the young girl.

She felt hands pulling her to her feet, and someone spraying her with cold water. The nozzle was jammed between her legs. "Got to clean up the pussy," Jean grinned at her. "Get you all ready for another round." She turned to Jake. "Stick the nozzle up her ass, too."

Jane Ann was positioned on the altar.

And the defilement began anew.

The Coven members laughed at her screams, the Beasts howled and danced.

Jane Ann silently prayed for forgiveness.

THREE A.M., SATURDAY

The voice awakened Sam.

"This will be our last communication, young warrior. For I must leave now."

"Are you going back … ah … home?"

"By a wandering route, yes."

At a loss for anything else to say, Sam said, "Well … been good talking to you."

The voice chuckled, the sky thundered. "How like your father you are. Good luck, young warrior."

Sam felt the force pull away, and knew that he was now truly on his own in this fight. Alone, he reminded himself, amending his thoughts, as far as physical assistance, that is. I still have … Him, he cast his eyes upward, toward the twinkling Heavens. "I hope," he muttered.

He ate the last of his food, then catnapped until dawn split the east with hues of awakening colors. Sam returned to his sniping war of nerves. At full dark, with only a few hours left him to complete his task, Sam would enter the house.

He didn't know how he would accomplish that, but he felt he would find a way, since he didn't really have a choice in the matter.

He also felt those in the house knew he would be coming in. And they would be waiting for him.

DAWN

There was grudging respect in Jean's eyes as she prodded Jane Ann awake with the toe of her boot. It had suddenly turned cold in Fork County, the temperature dropping into the mid-thirties during the night. Satan had pulled away his presence. Jane Ann lay shivering, naked on the ground. But she had neither complained nor begged.

"You think you've won, don't you?" Jean asked, her lips pulled in a sneer.

"Yes," Jane Ann managed a whisper, pushing the word past swollen lips. "My God always does."

Jean squatted down beside her, the stench of her unwashed body unbearable. She pulled a hunting knife from a sheath. "What I think I'll do, bitch, is cut off your tits and feed them to the Beasts."

Jane Ann said nothing.

"You wouldn't beg even then, would you?"

"No," the suffering, ravaged woman said.

"You know what we're going to do, don't you, cunt?"

"Yes."

Jean stood up, looked at Jane Ann for a moment, then savagely kicked her in the face with a booted foot. "Get the cross," she said to Jake. "And the hammers and spikes. Do it. Now."

* * *

"Is it almost over, Sam?" Miles asked. "Please God, let it be."

"A few more hours."

"Then you'll stop the suffering?"

"It will be stopped."

"I still don't understand why it had to be," Anita said. "Not entirely."

"It will be explained. I promise."

"You left us several times last night," Miles said. "I felt your presence leave."

"I went to the scene of ugliness several times. Once I let the spirit of a child depart her body."

Doris asked, "You could do that for her and not for Jane Ann?"

"Yes."

"There is so much I do not understand."

"It will be explained. Behind the curtain of life and death."

Wade sighed. "I never thought I'd hear myself say this, but I'm ready to go."

"He said it, Sam," Miles pointed to Wade. "Not me."

Soon, the mist that was Balon told them. "Only a few more hours."

"Ohh," Miles moaned.

She had screamed when they drove the spikes into her hands, her feet, her sides, losing consciousness only momentarily. Then, awake, she found the strength to cope. They had jammed a crown of thorns on her head, the blood dripped down her face,.streaking her bruised beauty. She hung naked from her wooden tower.

"Tell me your God is shit!" Tony yelled up to her.

Her eyes found him. "My God is love," Jane Ann whispered.

"Say it," a man urged. "Tell us you renounce your faith in your stupid God and we'll get you down, tend to your wounds."

But Jane Ann managed a smile, shaking her head no.

Some in the crowd, a few, grew restless, worried, for this was not going as planned. They had beaten and raped and tortured this woman nailed to a cross and still she could smile and keep her faith. Some began to openly question what they had done. Others began questioning their minds: could they, under the same circumstances, retain their faith for the Hooved One? Many doubted it.

"I want out," a woman sobbed. "Oh, God—help me get away from here."

A few others joined her. "Take Janey down!" a man called out. "She's suffered enough. Set her free and tend to her wounds."

Those few were seized and killed. One was spread-eagled on the ground, a stake driven through his stomach. He lay screaming for hours. Another man was given to the Beasts; they ate him alive. Two of the women were raped, then given to the Beasts for breeding purposes. The woman who first cried out to leave was given to Jake. She screamed out her humiliation as he took her in various ways. Then she was stoned to death.

"Anyone else want out?" Jean demanded, shouting at the huge crowd. "If so, just step forward."

No one did, but the thoughts of some were confused and troubled.

Jane Ann watched them, sensing the mood of many shifting. She wanted to tell them that if they confessed their sins and accepted God as the only True God, they could be saved. But the words would not form on her tongue. And she wondered why?

"Don't concern yourself with them!" Balon's words cut through the horrible pain in her body. "They are filth—rabble, body and soul belonging to the Dark One."

"You are a warrior, Sam Balon," she whispered, her voice not carrying three feet from her lonely tower. "And you will always be so." The crowd gathered ten feet below saw her lips move, but could not hear her words. They assumed she was praying. "Those are human beings," Jane Ann told the invisible spirit of Balon. "Some of hem used to be my friends. And obviously, some of them still have good in their hearts. They were tempted, Sam, and you know how delicious Satan can make sin."

Balon was firm. He projected: "They are sinners of the most evil sort. Knowingly, willingly, lovingly violating all of God's Commandments."

"I want to help them if I can." Jane Ann was just as stubborn as Sam Balon.

And the mist that was Balon, invisible as it circled around the scene of pain and degradation, projected: "You are certain? Even after all they have done to you? All the pain, the humiliation—you wish to help them?"

"Yes."

And in the firmament, the Total Being knew He had been right, choosing well.

Balon said: "Very well. That choice is entirely up to you."

Jane Ann felt Balon's presence fade. Once more, she was alone, looking down at her tormentors from her nailed position of pain and faith. She gazed at the assembled throng of Satanists, and many looked back at her, most with open hatred and defiance, but a few with concern and pity. Her eyes touched those, holding for a few seconds. When Jane Ann had their attention firm, she said, "I can promise you nothing except what help I might be able to give … offering my prayers for you. The rest is up to you."

"What the fuck are you mouthing about now, bitch?" Jake yelled up at her. He laughed hoarsely. "The silly cunt is losing her mind."

But a few among the many knew better. About thirty moved to the base of the pain-wracked tower. The numbers equally divided between men and women. They stood defiantly before the crowd, many of whom were old friends and lifelong acquaintances. The few looked at one another, then began to sing, softly at first, then with gathering power as the faith they had lost once more filled them with the strength they knew they would soon need. Many openly wept as their love of God returned to them, overwhelming them with the feeling that at last, at long last, they were doing something worthy with their lives.

No one among the large crowd watching them attempted to interfere, for those gathered under the bloody, starkly vivid cross were all armed.

"Throw down your guns," Jane Ann told them.

All but one did. He walked back into the crowd that encircled the Cross of Faith and the few who, at the last, had seen the True Way.

The powerful strains of "Faith Of Our Fathers" rang over the site of rape and defilement and slow, agonizing death.

Shouting profanities, the Coven members surged forward, with Jean shouting orders to build more crosses, and do it quickly.

FIVE O'CLOCK, SATURDAY THE LAST DAY

Sam darted across the grounds, toward the mansion, only faintly defined in the growing darkness. No lights showing. Dark windows like evil, watching eyes. Stopping at the back door, he paused to catch his breath and to ponder his sanity at doing this. Putting an ear to the door, he listened, but could detect no sound from within. He drew back, extending his arm to the door knob. Just before his hand touched the brass, the door swung open, and Falcon stood smiling at him, his fanged teeth glistening wetly in the darkness of the room.

"My dear Mr. King," the warlock said, his smile hideous. "So good to see you. Please come in. We've been waiting."

"Stay away from me," Janet warned the older girl. "1 mean it. I don't trust you," she whispered.

Linda smiled, her smile both evil and wanting. She returned the whisper. "Why don't you scream? Nydia will come to your aid."

"I will if you don't leave me alone." Nydia lay on the couch before the fire, deep in sleep. Her stomach was hurting. She moaned in her sleep.

Linda was steadily backing the child into a corner, her face holding a strange look, eyes burning. "Really thought you could get away with it, didn't you?"

"I don't know what you mean," Janet whispered. "I thought you were my friend."

"I am your friend, and you know what I mean."

Janet's hand closed around a poker, her back to a wall. "Leave me alone."

"Open your shirt," Linda commanded. "I want to see if you're marked."

"You're bananas!" the child hissed her fear.

"I want to see if you're marked!"

"Marked?" the girl questioned. "Is that all?"

Linda nodded, running her tongue over her lips and teeth.

"All right," Janet said. "But I still think you're nuts." She fumbled with the buttons of her shirt. Her breasts were bare, the buds tipped with tiny nipples.

Linda's tongue snaked out of her mouth, wetting her lips. Her tongue was unusually red. "I knew you were one of us."

"I'm not one of anybody! I'm not marked." The child pressed her back against the wall.

"I can see it in your eyes. You're really one of us." She held out her arms. "Come to me."

"You touch me and I'll bop you with this." Janet lifted the poker.

"Don't be afraid, child of ours, our God understands," Linda said.

Janet raised the poker. "Don't take another step," she warned.

Linda moved toward her, eyes shining, lips wet.

The poker swung. A dull splatting sound filled the room.

Nydia awakened to screaming.

* * *

"It's good," Jean spoke to the Coven. "We have been assured a long, exciting life on this earth. This act guarantees it."

Behind them, all around the circle of stones, around and slightly beneath the height of Jane Ann's lonely perch, a low moaning, sobbing sound was heard, the anguished sounds of pain and prayer audibly mixing with the silent flicker of the torches that lit the scene of awfulness. Some of the men and women who had repented to the True Way had been crucified; some had been stripped naked and the skin peeled from living bodies; others had been sexually mutilated and left to bleed to death; all of the women and some of the men had been sexually assaulted … hideously.

But not one had renounced the Lord God.

"Good-bye, Sam," Jane Ann spoke to her son. "Remember that Mother loves you."

The words slammed into Sam's brain as he stood poised in the open doorway of Falcon House. "Good-bye, Mother," he said, flinging his thoughts with all the mental strength he could muster.

"I heard," his mother's voice was faint in his brain. "Be careful."

Sam's head was once again clear of voices. He felt new strength enter him. He looked at Falcon.

"You can save yourself a great deal of pain, young man," the warlock said. "With just one simple act."

"And that is … ?"

"Renounce your God."

"I have something to say to that." Sam returned the mocking smile.

"Yes, young man?"

And just before Sam hit the warlock smack in the mouth with his leather-gloved fist, dropping him to the floor, momentarily stunning the man, he said, "Fuck you!"

Sam was past the dining area and into the den, running hard, before Falcon could pull himself up from the floor, vile-smelling blood leaking from his bruised mouth. The young man charged the room full of satanists, startling them. Holding the Thompson SMG firm, swinging it left to right, Sam blew a half dozen of them into the arms of their Master, then charged through the house, running up the first flight of stairs, heading for Roma's quarters. He had several sharpened stakes shoved behind his belt.

Turning at the landing by the second flight of steps, Sam ended the life of several more, emptying the drum into them as they charged recklessly behind him. A wildly fired shot pulled at Sam's left arm, gouging a bloody path. His arm burned from the lead, but it was slight and not serious. He ran up the stairs.

Lana confronted him, hissing at him, teeth fanged, fingers turned into talons, reaching for him, her breath stinking. He fired into her body and she flopped on the floor, screaming oaths at him. But she would not die. She crawled to her feet, mouth and tongue blood-red just as Sam tore the top off a vial of holy water and flung it at her. The water bubbled and hissed as it burned her face, searing and smoking as acid, eating into her living but dead unholy flesh. She screamed and thrashed on the floor, beating her feet to a macabre dance of pain and death.

Furious footsteps sounded behind him. Sam spun, ejected the drum and rammed home a clip, jacking a round into the chamber. He crouched, at the ready, as several youthful members of the Coven, all from Nelson or Carrington College came rushing at him. Sam pulled the trigger back and held it, starting the hard burst waist high. One slug caught Mac on the hipbone, flinging him backward, over the railing. He screamed as he flailed through the air, the screaming abruptly halted when he hit the marble floor. He splattered with an ugly sound.

The hallway was littered with dead and dying and undead. Sam doused them with blessed water and raced to Roma's quarters, the screaming smoking flesh fouling the air behind him.

Roma was gone, her quarters empty. Sam ran through the three room suite, pausing to look at a picture on a dresser by a rumpled bed. It was the 8 x 10 of his father. Sam stood for what he thought was only a moment, but he had a feeling that time was spinning past him, and he did not understand that. The picture seemed to hold him mesmerized; he was conscious of a strange stillness in the great house. Nothing was moving. Then, he shook his head. Noise once again drifted to him. And before his disbelieving eyes, the photograph melted into nothing.

He spun at a noise behind him. Black stood, a dueling sword in each hand. "I will guarantee my position of greatness by your death at my hands," he said smiling. "We will fight fairly, you and I. With these," he held up the slim swords. "You mortals have a streak of justness inherently bred in you. So I know we shall have a fair fight. Shall we begin, half brother?"

"If you'd ever gone through Ranger school, Black, sou'd know better than to ask a stupid question like that." Sam lifted the Thompson and blew a dozen holes into Black.

Black was flung backward, slamming against the wall, the bullet holes in his chest smoking pocks. But he would not die. He slowly rose to his feet, laughing insanely. "You don't fight fair, half brother," he said, flicking the tip of the sword at Sam.

"Ain't that the truth?" Sam said, then cut off Black's legs at the knees with another burst of lead.

Black shrieked and thrashed on the floor, unable to get up. Sam heard loud voices and the faint sounds of boots, running, a door slamming, then another door opening and closing. He jerked a stake out of his belt and drove it into Black's chest. A filthy liquid poured from his half brother's chest and mouth, the color and odor of stinking pus.

As he lay dying on the floor, Black said, "One point I must make, dear brother," he gasped, as unlife ebbed from him. "Have you taken into consideration that one day you may have to do this very thing to your wife?"

With pus and foulness rolling in streams from his body, Black closed his eyes and died.

Sam pulled out a small bottle of fuel. He doused the drapes and carpet with it, then tossed a match onto the floor, the extremely flammable fuel going up with a whooshing sound, the flames jumping around the room, spreading into the hall carpet.

Picking up a sword, Sam ran from the room, literally knocking Judy down in the hall. She hissed at him, teeth fanged. Sam ran her through with the rapier, leaving her pinned to the floor, flopping and screaming, foulness staining the carpet beneath her thrashings.

Sam ran from room to room, setting the drapes, beds, and closets, full of clothing, blazing.

"Fire!" someone yelled. "The house is on fire."

Sam ran to the balcony and opened fire on the panicked Coven members, knocking several of them spinning and howling to the marble floor. He ran down the hallway, setting rooms blazing, quitting only when he ran out of fuel and matches. He looked up at the top floor, it was blazing, smoke pouring out in oily plumes.

It can't be this easy, he thought. I can't have won this easily.

"Quite right, young man," Falcon's voice reached him from the floor below.

Sam spun, the Thompson at the ready.

"Oh, for pity's sake," Falcon said. "Put that foolish weapon away. It can't harm me in any manner—unlike your half brother. I've been shot by more jealous husbands than you have cartridges for your weapons."

Falcon's face was only slightly bruised from Sam's hard punch. He was dressed in a smoking jacket, his right hand in his pocket.

Sam looked at his watch. He was shocked to find it was eight-thirty. He had ninety minutes to get to Nydia and the others and get away. Where had the time gone? It must have had something to do with his dad's picture; that odd sensation he experienced.

"Are you taking some sort of medication or expecting company?" Falcon asked.

"What?"

"Your watch, and the expression on your face when you consulted your timepiece. Ah!" comprehension flooded his features. "I see. The ancient warrior gave you a timetable, did he not?"

Sam chose not to reply. He shifted the Thompson from right to left hand and stepped onto the stairs, the bannister hiding his right hand from Falcon's eyes. He hoped. His fingers closed around one of the two vials of holy water he had left.

"Ah, God's young warrior." Falcon smiled. "You are really going to fight me?"

"I don't see that I have any choice. Where are all the others?"

Falcon laughed, rather bitterly, Sam thought. "What others? You've been charging around here firing that weapon and driving swords and stakes into people. We were not that many to begin with."

"You're a liar."

Falcon merely shrugged. "I have been called much worse, I assure you. No, a few ran away into the night."

"Roma?"

"Gone. Safe."

"You set Black up to die, didn't you? Giving him that silly sword?"

"Very astute of you. Yes."

Sam was only a few steps from the bottom. He slowly removed the bottle of holy water.

"You can't win by fighting me, Sam," Falcon told him. Then, quite unlike him, he said, "I set you up, too."

Sam flung the holy water at the warlock, deliberately aiming at the spot just in front of his feet, so the bottle would break and splatter its contents.

The blessed water splashed on Falcon's legs and a few drops hit his flesh, burning him. The warlock screamed in pain. Sam jerked the last vial from his pocket, smashed the top against the railing, and threw it into Falcon's face.

It had the same effect as acid, producing holes in the man's face, smoking pits. One eye turned to ooze, running down Falcon's face.

"You lose, young man," Falcon managed to hiss, the words like a gurgle from the smoking holes in his throat.

"I lose?" Sam said.

But Falcon could no longer talk, his throat a burning hole, emitting putrid odors of the grave and beyond. He slowly pulled a flat automatic pistol from his jacket Docket and pulled the trigger twice, both slugs hitting Sam, in the chest and stomach.

Sam tumbled forward, down the steps. He rolled next to Falcon's rapidly metamorphosing body, his blood mixing with the slime oozing from the warlock's rotting burning flesh.

Sam tried to get to his feet, but strength was leaving him. He collapsed as darkness enveloped him, falling into the oozing slime.

THE FINAL MOMENTS

"Get into Wade's car," Balon projected. "Everybody! Don't ask questions. Do it. I will bring the Clay Man.'

"You?" Miles said. "That golem weighs half a ton. Ask me. I almost gave myself a hernia fooling with it."

"Don't argue with me!"

"Yes, preacher," Miles sighed. "What do we do when we get into the car?"

"Go to The Digging. We will be waiting for you there.'

"This is it then?" Doris asked.

"Yes."

"Ohh," Miles said, putting one hand to his mouth. "Already I feel strange."

"Miles," his wife said. "Be quiet. All right, Sam, I'm ready. Let's go."

"Doris!" her husband said. "Don't be in such a hurry. You got to be so pushy!"

"Don't be afraid," Balon projected. "When you get to The Digging, get out of the car and walk toward the crosses. You won't be seen or bothered."

"Why?" Miles asked, stalling for a little time.

"I'll tell you when you get there. If I told you now, you wouldn't go. Move it, people."

"You were a sergeant, weren't you, preacher?" Miles asked, Doris pushing him toward the door.

"That is correct."

"Once a sergeant, always one. Must be something in the food they serve you guys."

His wife shoved him out the door. No one noticed that when they walked under a bright s!reet lamp on the way to Wade's car … none of them had a shadow.

Sam felt hands on him and he tried to fight them off, finally giving up. He was too weak. He opened his eyes and looked into the beautiful face of Nydia, and eyes of pure love.

"You'll have to help us, Sam," she said. "Try to get up, honey—please?"

"Us?" Sam asked, painfully struggling to get to his feet.

"Janet is with me."

"Where's Linda?"

"Dead. She was … one of them. I told you there was something about her I didn't like. Come on, we'll talk later. Move your legs, Sam, one step at a time."

"Don't forget Dad's Thompson. I want it."

"It isn't here, Sam," Nydia told him. "And neither is the pistol with your dad's name on it."

"Where'd they go?" Janet asked, on one side of Sam, helping him toward the door.

"I don't know," Nydia said. Cool air hit Sam as they reached the front door of the burning mansion. "I do," Sam said.

When Wade and the others drove up to the old dig site, they witnessed the end of the Coven. The golem was indestructible and awesome in his fury. Not even when dozens of Devil-worshipers charged the Clay Man could they move him, stop him, or even slow him in his killing frenzy.

"We're supposed to walk through all that and not be harmed?" Miles asked, looking around him. "Dear God, how?"

But Wade had already guessed. "We're not here anymore, old friend."

They glanced at him, Doris saying, "You mean … we are … ?"

"Yes," Balon's voice came to them. "You are free of this earth. Walk toward the crosses."

They walked across the digging site, littered with the broken bodies of those who chose to live with the Dark One. No one seemed to notice them. Miles stopped by one Coven member who was paralyzed with fear, unable to move or tear his eyes from the sight of the golem in its fury. Miles tapped him on the shoulder.

"Hey, you shnorrer (Chiseler), you still owe me for that living-room furniture you bought ten years ago."

But the man paid him no attention.

"You hear me, you crook?"

The man ran screaming into the night. He ran right through Miles and Doris, Wade and Anita.

Through them.

"So send the money to the JDL, you goniff!" (thief) Miles called after the fleeing, frightened man. Miles turned, once more facing the starkly outlined crosses behind the circle of stones. "Oh my," he said, his eyes finding the tortured form of Jane Ann. "Oh no." He began prayers in Hebrew, his wife joining him.

"Hideous," Anita said. "How could a human do that to another human?"

"Easily," Wade told her. "Ever looked at pictures of Nazi concentration camps?"

The four of them walked through the scene of blood and pain, past the golem who was occupied solely in tearing both arms from a shrieking Devil-worshiper. They paid no attention to him, for the Clay Man was still earthbound, still a part of a world to which they could no longer relate. They walked to a petite figure standing beside the tallest cross, under the ravaged pale naked body of Jane Ann. Beside the figure dressed in a white robe, her hair shining in the glow of the torches, her complexion unmarred by bruises, beautiful and radiant, was the tall rugged form of Sam Balon. The four of them ran the last distance, Wade holding out his hand in greeting.

"No, don't touch," Sam Balon cautioned them gently. "Not just yet. It takes a little time."

"You're speaking … normally," Miles said.

"Yes. Come, old friends. It's over."

But no one wanted to move. Anita smiled at Jane Ann. "I've never seen you looking lovelier, Janey."

Jane Ann returned the smile. "I'm fine, Anita. At last."

"Come," Sam Balon said, motioning them forward.

"This is the part I ain't real thrilled with." Miles looked nervously around him.

Sam Balon laughed at his old friend, a hearty, booming laugh. "You'll never change, Miles."

Miles put his hand on his left forearm, the hand going ihrough the arm as if moving through vapor. "This is not a change?" He looked at Sam Balon.

Balon smiled at him. "Come, we must go. Time is growing short."

Far down a strange-appearing road that angled softly, gently upward, they could see a line of people walking. They were happy, laughing and talking.

"The ones who stood beside me at the end," Jane Ann explained.

Miles took his wife's hand. Together, hand in hand, they walked up the road, Sam and Jane Ann in the lead, Wade and Anita following.

The six of them walked the strangely lighted road, a road with no ruts, no holes, no obstacles; a smooth nonsurface. All around them a misty blue light illuminated their way.

"Don't look back," Balon cautioned them. "Look straight ahead for a time."

"Toward home," Wade said, his words almost a sigh of relief.

"Yes," Reverend Sam Balon said, his big hand seeking and finding the soft hand of Jane Ann.

And the two were together, forever, at last.

When the golem's work was done, he began his lumbering walk to the river, miles from the scene of defilement. At the river, the Clay Man stepped down the bank and stood on the clay that was him. He slowly melted into the earth and became once more that which he was: all things of this earth, a creation of God, with the Almighty once more reclaiming him.

The fireball seared the land, leaving nothing but smoke and fire and desolation. The land would one day grow again, bits of grass popping forth, flowers springing upward, seeking the warmth of the sun. But it would be a long time. Years. And when the first flower would appear, pushing out of the earth toward God's sun … it would be a blood-red rose.

The doctor in the small French settlement finally came out of his small operating room, a smile on his lips. "He's going to be all right," he told the young woman standing beside the young girl.

"Thank God," Nydia said, tears streaming down her face.

"He'll need lots of rest and care," the doctor told Nydia and Janet. "But," his smile was gentle, "I think he'll be in good hands."

EPILOGUE

In a small French settlement in Eastern Canada, a woman died giving birth. No doctor was in attendance. The baby did not birth normally. It literally exploded from the womb in a gush of blood and mangled flesh. Roma screamed for the last time as the gaping wound in her belly tore the life from her. She saw only a glimpse of the infant before she finally died, but that one quick look was enough. She died with a smile on her lips, knowing she had served her master well.

The child fought the hands that cleaned it and bathed it and held it. It had enormous strength. It howled and snarled and snapped. And then, as if spoken to by an invisible force from some far-off world beyond human comprehension, the child became docile, losing its monsterlike features.

The child allowed an old woman to hold it for a time. The old woman's daughter, who had just birthed a child, was brought in to nurse the infant. The nursing mother, like her mother, and all the others in attendance, wore a strange-looking medallion around her neck.

The child, after nursing, played with the medallion.

In the caves behind the charred remains of the once great mansion called Falcon House, the Beasts settled in for a long sleep. They had kept a very low profile during the battles between the evil forces and the old warrior. They knew when to fight and when not to fight. Now they slept. With only a single sentry on guard. They would be called again. They always were.

And on the sixth day of the sixth month, at precisely the sixth minute of her pregnancy, Nydia gave birth to a tiny premature baby. The doctors were astonished at the baby's condition, for the boy was in perfect health. A beautiful child.

"Amazing," the doctors said.

Mother and father could but look at each other in silence … and wonder.

"I'll help you take good care of the baby," Janet told Nydia. "I promise I will."

Janet's parents were fond of Sam and Nydia, and delighted their daughter had been returned to them unharmed.

"I know you will," Nydia said, patting the child's hand.

The bite marks on Nydia's neck had healed and vanished without scarring months ago.

"Janet just loves babies," her father said, smiling.

"I don't know what we would have done without you," Sam said.

Janet walked to a window in the hospital room, away from Nydia and Sam and her parents. She stood for a few seconds, looking at her reflection in the glass. She smiled, the parting of young lips exposing teeth suddenly fanged, the points glistening sharply, blood-red. Her eyes were wild, that of a person possessed.

The wild look vanished, the teeth were again normal. The young girl turned around, facing the adults. "I don't know what I would have done without you and Nydia," she said, looking at Sam. "I owe you both my life. And I promise you both I'll look after the baby. Forever and ever."

Janet smiled. Very sweetly.

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Comments

From School Library Journal

YA-Responding to an emergency medical call from a Vulcan archeological team digging on the desolate planet Iconia, the Enterprise arrives to find them murdered. Picard comes into possession of a powerful, ancient artifact, the Ko N’Ya. He and the crew of the Enterprise become caught up in the battle to possess this ruby gem, which leaves behind it a trail of blood as red as the devil’s heart itself. In this tale of power and greed, aliens and humans alike are tempted by the endless power of the jewel. Carter has woven several individual story lines into a complex, textured, well-written plot and peopled it with three-dimensional characters. While the novel stands on its own, fans of ST:TNG will find it a rich reading experience.
John Lawson, Fairfax County Public Library, VA
Copyright 1993 Reed Business Information, Inc.

Product Description

When communications are cut off from a remote archaeological outpost, the crew of the Enterprise is sent to investigate, only to discover a ravaged outpost, a dying scientist, and a mystery involving a legendary object of power.

Author

Carmen Carter

Rights

Language

Published

1993-04-14

ISBN

9780671793258

Read Now

Prologue

Iconia was dead.

The planet itself would remain intact until its sun went nova, but the world he had known, the soft tissue of life rooted on the fragile mantle, had already been destroyed. Constant weapons bombardment had vaporized its shallow seas, incinerated its verdant plains, and eradicated all who had once inhabited its surface.

Barbarians.

Kanda Jiak swayed on his feet as yet another tremor rocked the Gateway chamber.

The station was shielded against detection and proof against even a direct photon blow, but the land itself was shifting under the impact of ceaseless explosions.

Could there be anything left worth attacking on Iconia, any city that had not been razed by the firestorms? Or was their hatred so fierce that they prolonged this holocaust out of sheer bloodlust?

After First Contact, the philosopher Senega had warned that a disparity in technologies could unsettle other races; she predicted that knowledge of Iconian superiority would foster fear and distrust; and as a final legacy before her death, she prophesied the final fatal connection between fear and the rage to destroy what could not be understood.

Demons of air and darkness, that is what they call us.

Ironically, after the diplomats failed to turn back the space-faring hordes gnawing at the edges of the Empire, the Gateways that inspired such superstitions had provided the ultimate salvation for the surviving Iconians.

Over the last few days, ten thousand of his people had slipped through narrow rips in the fabric of space; they and their descendants would build new homes on the remote outposts of Ikkabar, DiWahn, and Dynasia. Iconian language and culture would survive even if this world was pummeled into dust.

Now it was Jiak’s turn to cross the threshold.

He settled the weight of the Gem into the crook of his arm. In a room of gleaming metal panels, humming consoles, and the crackling blue energy of the Gatekey, this rough rock seemed strangely out of place, yet it had built this structure just as surely as the legions of architects, engineers, and technicians. The secrets of the entire universe were locked inside this ancient relic, and three generations of Iconians had only begun to coax out that knowledge.

Blue. Red. Blue. Jiak tapped out a familiar sequence on triangular buttons.

A jagged bolt of light shot out of the central control globe, forming a dancing umbilical cord to the narrow frame of an activated Gateway.

He scanned the cycle of shifting landscapes.

Three habitable worlds were open to him, yet his final choice meant nothing to him; all were primitive compared to Iconia.

Farewell.

Jiak stepped forward, and through.

No! This is wrong!

On the other side, the blare of a red sun seared his eyes, and a gust of dry, heated air sucked the moisture from his lungs. He sank deep into the ground as shifting grains of sand gave way beneath his feet; his weight had doubled under the force of a heavier gravity.

This desert world was not of his choosing, and he could not survive in this harsh climate.

“Save me!”

For the past three decades, the Gem had been his talisman. He stroked the stone in supplication, but in the midst of this blazing oven it had turned ice cold.

Jiak collapsed onto the ground. The Gem fell from his weakened grasp, and he watched it roll out of his reach.

“Betrayed,” he whispered hoarsely. “You have betrayed me. Why?”

Alone out of all the Iconians, Senega had called the Gem a curse rather than a blessing … the price of True Knowledge comes high … too high.

As he slipped toward death’s embrace, Jiak dreamed that his life was nothing but a mirage shimmering in another mind …

She cried out her fear of dying alone in the desert until her flailing arms wrapped themselves around the stone.

Not lost after all. Not dying.

She awakened enough to separate her own thoughts from Jiak’s identity, to remember that she was safe in her own bed on a planet called Atropos. Her covers were tangled about her feet, but the Gem’s heat warded off the chill night air seeping into her tent. With a sigh of relief, the old woman curled on her side, tucking herself around the sphere as if afraid it could still tumble away from her.

Ko N’ya.

Yes, that was the Gem’s name in her language … and that language was Vulcan.

I am T’Sara.

Even lying still on her cot, T’Sara’s body felt limp, drained by the ordeal that had been Jiak’s and her own blurred together. True sleep would help restore her strength, but she begrudged the waste of time. She wanted to explore the lives of all who had held this stone before her, and that quest could take many years to complete.

Tonight, in this dream, T’Sara had seen her homeworld through the eyes of an alien being, felt the heavy pull of its gravity on a body that was not her own. Most important of all, however, she had discovered another bridge in the meandering path of the Ko N’ya. The leap from far-distant Iconia to Vulcan would have eluded her otherwise.

Any thought of embarking on another search was suspended by the sound of movement in the compound outside. The other archaeologists had cleared the rubble from around their shared habitations, but T’Sara had no patience for such domestic touches. She could hear the scuffle of boots climbing over mounds of fallen stonework and crumbling walls.

By her count, at least four Vulcans were headed toward her tent.

The visitors came to a stop just outside the domed enclosure. Someone’s hands brushed lightly across the fabric wall until probing fingers found purchase on the ridged seams marking the entrance. A shaft of moonlight slipped through the widening breach.

“T’Sara?”

Because it was Sorren, she said, “Enter.”

The young man slipped inside, then resealed the portal with more care than she had taken. Each day she was less and less concerned with the basic necessities of survival. If not for Sorren’s prodding, she would forget even to eat.

She made no move to activate a lantern, and he did not ask for light. The darkness made it easier for him to ignore the Ko N’ya when they talked.

“T’Sara, your cries have awakened everyone in the camp … again.”

The others who had kept him company remained huddled outside. She could hear them taking shallow breaths of the frigid air. “I was restless.”

“These spells of unrest are becoming more frequent.”

“I have slept away too much of my life,” said the woman. “I intend to make better use of my remaining years.”

“I am still young, however; and I will never reach your august age if I am robbed of my sleep now.” There was a hint of wry humor in Sorren’s remark, a rare self-indulgence from such an earnest young Vulcan.

“Then go back to bed, my child, and I promise not to wake you again.” Her position as leader of the expedition invested her words with the authority of a direct command.

“Very well,” he said. She heard the rustle of the seals parting, felt a cool draft of air, then saw Sorren’s willowy silhouette as he stepped through the opening. “I will bring you some tea in the morning.”

He closed the entrance, plunging her back into darkness and warmth, yet T’Sara could hear him whisper to his waiting companions. “It was only a bad dream.”

“That is what you said last night,” said Sohle. His gruff voice merely roughened when he tried to speak quietly.

“It is no less true for having happened a second time.”

“How many disturbances does it take to convince you, Sorren?” asked T’Challo. “T’Sara is ill.”

“My last medical scan did not confirm any ill health.”

“You are no doctor,” said T’Challo. “And it is time we …”

The voices faded away before T’Sara could overhear any more of their discussion, but she had no interest in their bickering. Morning was still a few hours away.

She had just enough time to fall into another dream.

CHAPTER 1

Captain Jean-Luc Picard slept with the same air of authority he carried with him on the bridge of the Enterprise. Even in the privacy of his darkened cabin and the haven of unconsciousness, he maintained a commander’s demeanor. The silken blue pajamas he wore only emphasized the hard contours of his body he lay flat on his back, his lean frame held at attention except for one arm flung above his head; his lips were set in a firm, unyielding line.

It was not a comfortable pose, but then Picard was not a comfortable man.

A spacious cabin with generous furnishings, their smooth wash of pastel colors, a lush plant gracing the table by his bed—none of these luxuries had softened his sense of responsibility, or his conviction that danger could be held at bay only by unceasing vigilance.

As if to vindicate his subconscious wariness, the trill of a communications call marred the silence that had surrounded him. The captain was awake and alert before the second ring of the summons had sounded. Quickly rolling to a half-sitting position, he cleared his throat to erase any trace of sleep from his voice.

“Picard here.”

“Incoming message from Starbase 193, Priority Two.”

“Thank you, Ensign Ro. I’ll take it here in my quarters.” Knowing the commander of the starbase in question, Picard automatically scaled down the urgency of the call by at least one degree; Miyakawa had a tendency to overdramatize, an occupational hazard for officers mired in the mundane activities of an administrative post. He allowed himself the indulgence of a leisurely stretch before slipping out of bed to activate the transmission.

At his touch, the viewscreen on the wall flickered to life. The first part of the communiqu`e was brief and to the point, but then Vulcans were not given to circumlocution. Miyakawa’s subsequent request for aid was brusque, even imperious, as if she suspected the captain of the Enterprise might balk at such an insignificant task.

Perhaps there were some captains who would resent the diversion of a galaxy-class starship on a small errand of mercy, but Picard was not one of them.

Besides, he wanted this particular mission.

A combination of natural reticence and Starfleet training stripped Picard’s voice of emotion as he activated the intercom and issued orders to the bridge crew. His excitement was strictly personal and had no place in the execution of duty.

“Course change initiated.”

Data’s voice betrayed no reaction to the new coordinates, but Picard could swear he heard Ro Laren’s muffled curse in the background.

Merde. The captain belatedly remembered the consequences of this diversion on the crew’s own affairs. “Increase speed to warp six.” That was faster than the assignment warranted, but a more moderate pace might tax everyone’s patience.

In the time it took him to step out of his pajamas and into a clean pair of uniform pants, Picard was hailed over the intercom yet again.

“Riker to Captain Picard.”

“It’s a routine diversion, Number One,” said Picard, aiming his reply at the ceiling intercom. “At warp six, we’ll only experience a short delay.” He slipped the tunic jacket over his head, confident that the heavy cloth could not drown out his first officer’s emphatic response.

“With all due respect, sir, routine missions aren’t rated Priority Two. If this takes more than a few extra days … well, it’s damn inconvenient for Geordi’s maintenance agenda at spacedock.”

“Ah, yes, the new magnetic constrictor coils,” said Picard, careful to keep the smile on his face from seeping into his voice. Reaching for his boots, the captain did his best to allay Riker’s anxiety. “In my opinion, the urgency of the situation was slightly overstated, so we should be able to make up the lost time without too much difficulty. Schedule a briefing this morning for all senior officers so we can ensure a swift completion of this mission.”

“Aye, sir.”

The soft hum of the open channel cut off.

Now that the immediate demands of duty had been fulfilled, Picard walked out into his living room and turned his attention to breakfast. As was his custom, he ordered a light menu for two from the food synthesizer. However, reflecting over Riker’s strained reaction to the change of plans, the captain considered the probable effect on his guest’s more volatile temper.

“Computer,” he said quickly. “Extra butter and cream.”

He had added two different fruit juices and a jar of orange marmalade to the spread on the table when his chief medical officer arrived. Some mornings, Beverly Crusher appeared with the slightly rumpled look of a doctor just coming off duty, her eyes darkened by fatigue, but the previous night must have been free of medical emergencies because her face was free of stress; the lines of her blue medical coat were sharp and crisp, and her long red hair was neatly coiled at the nape of her neck.

“What’s the special occasion?” Crusher asked, surveying the offerings.

“Nothing beyond the pleasure of your company.”

“Hah!” She spooned a large helping of eggs onto her plate. “If I weren’t so hungry, I’d seriously question your motives.”

“I’m wounded by your suspicion, Doctor.”

Fortunately, her mouth was too full for her to press the issue, even in jest.

Judging from her animated spirits, Beverly seemed to have missed the news working its way through the ship’s grapevine; he would be able to inform her of the diversion himself. Later. He sought safer ground by asking about the progress of her latest theatrical production. Unfortunately, his mind was too preoccupied with their new destination to actually absorb much of her answer.

Picard had started on the French toast when she turned their conversation to the ship’s next port of call.

“There’s a restaurant on Luxor IV,” said Crusher, her blue eyes bright from the recollection, “that serves the best pancakes in the entire Federation. It would make a great place to celebrate—” she caught herself ju st in time, “shore leave.”

“I’m afraid there will be a slight delay, just a day or two, in our arrival to Luxor IV.

We’ve been diverted to a fringe-territory star system on a medical assistance mission.”

Picard assumed a look of nonchalance in the face of Beverly’s sharpened attention. “In fact, the Enterprise was chosen specifically for this mission because of your expertise in handling Bendii’s syndrome.”

“What?” she stopped mid-bite into a scone lathered with butter. “I’m not an expert in Bendii’s syndrome! I’ve only seen one case in my entire medical career.”

“Yes, well, it seems that even one is one more than any other doctor outside of the Vulcan Medical Academy.”

“And Ambassador Sarek wasn’t even my patient,” she said, shaking the scone at him for emphasis. “I didn’t treat him, I just diagnosed the condition.”

“Think of this as an opportunity to expand your medical experience.”

“Thank you, Captain, but I prefer to do that on my own time and not at the expense of my patients.”

Picard poured her a fresh cup of tea with a generous measure of cream. “We’re also the only Federation starship within easy reach of the system. Under the circumstances, there is no other option for you or for your new patient.”

The doctor sighed in reluctant agreement.

“So just who is this Vulcan with Bendii’s syndrome?” She hastily popped the last bit of bread into her mouth, then accepted the cup he offered her.

“A scientist. T’Sara.”

Beverly frowned. “You say that name as if I should know her.”

“Forgive me,” Picard said. “Just because I’ve followed her work for years, I expect others to be aware of her as well.” He nodded in the direction of his bookshelves. “She began her career as a preeminent folklorist renowned for her work in comparative mythology, then moved on to archaeology.”

“Ah, so that’s why she’s out in the back of beyond.”

“Yes,” said the captain. “For the past ten years, T’Sara has been the expedition leader for an archaeological excavation on Atropos.

Her assistant radioed for medical assistance, claiming that her erratic and irrational behavior appeared to be symptomatic of early stage Bendii’s.”

“She was diagnosed by an archaeologist?”

Crusher rolled her eyes in exaggerated despair. “Save me from amateurs.”

“I’m sure Sorren will welcome your professional assessment.”

“I’m sure he’s very welcome.”

Despite her sarcasm, she seemed resigned to the necessity of the mission. Picard smiled with satisfaction as he offered the doctor another scone.

Timing is everything on a starship from the warp drive engines that mesh matter and antimatter for a duration measured by the single pulse of an electron, to the life support systems that regulate the smooth flow of air through the vessel, even down to the measured movements of the crew who control the day-to-day operations of the ship.

First Officer William Riker was a master of timing. And the master of time aboard the Enterprise. His skillful juggling of the duty schedules had created a small window of opportunity, one that allotted a select group of people the same break from their respective shifts.

Five senior officers, the same ones who were due at a mission briefing later that morning, were gathered together in the close confines of Riker’s cabin. Their captain, however, was conspicuously absent.

Picard’s quelling influence fostered a degree of decorum that was entirely lacking at this assembly. During the early days of his posting on board the Enterprise, William Riker had tried to mimic the captain’s imposing demeanor, only to find that he had a tendency to bluster and bully when he asserted himself. Over the years, the first officer had developed his own style, a looser and less obvious grip on the rein of command. So, for the moment, he let the meeting run its course without his participation; instead, he sat with his large frame sprawled carelessly over a chair, one leg thrown over the armrest, and watched everyone from under hooded eyes.

Geordi La Forge was the first to speak out. His metal visor might mask the expressiveness of his face, but he managed to communicate his indignation without any difficulty. “I say it’s a trick! Somehow the crew of the Telarius managed to bribe someone to pull us out of the sector.”

“Oh, honestly,” said Deanna Troi. She had been the last to arrive and was perched on the edge of the sofa with her feet dangling uncomfortably off the floor. Her dark, exotic features and shapely figure usually inspired immediate gallantry from the men around her, but on this occasion not one of them had given up his seat. Riker suspected that the unintentional slight was at least partly responsible for the edge of asperity in her voice. “No one would go to that much trouble just for a—” “You’d be surprised, Counselor,” said Geordi. “Anybody who works on Starbase 193,” he grimaced when he mentioned the base, “would sell his grandmother for ten credits.”

“Cowards. They have no honor,” said Worf.

At the start of the session, before Riker could call out a warning, the lieutenant had settled his weight into a soft chair that would offend his warrior sensibilities as much as it offended his spine; Riker judged that the Klingon was as uncomfortable as Troi, but the sensible solution, an offer to trade places with her, probably reeked too much of Human courtesy. “Of course, a Klingon ship would never waste time on a medical call.”

“Stop glaring at me,” said Crusher to the security officer. “It’s not as if I volunteered for this mission.”

“However,” said Data. “If not for your specific medical expertise, the Enterprise would not have been chosen for this particular assignment.”

“Nonsense. Captain Picard told me we were the only starship in range of Atropos.”

The android’s face creased into his best approximation of a puzzled frown. If he saw Riker’s frantic hand signal from across the room, he failed to fathom its meaning; Data continued inexorably. “I am afraid the captain was in error. At the time we received the distress call there were two other starships which were in greater proximity to the star system.”

“Swell,” muttered Geordi.

“This is not my fault!” Crusher’s grim expression was a sure sign that she had just added deception to her list of grievances against Picard.

Now was the time, calculated Riker.

“I’m glad we’ve been diverted.”

With all heads snapped around to stare at him, he followed the heretical declaration with a broad, flashing grin. “The delay gives us that much more time to hone our skills, and it gives the crew of the Telarius a false sense of security. They know we’re their only serious competition, and if they think we won’t show, we can catch them off guard.”

“Yeah, but what if we don’t make it to Luxor IV in time?” demanded Geordi.

“Nah,” said Riker with a dismissive wave.

“This is a routine pickup. We’ll be on our way back before you know it. The trick will be to make sure we don’t arrive too soon. We may have to find some excuse to slow down our return trip, a way to ensure a proper entrance … say, five minutes before the championship begins.”

His confidence was infectious, and he noted with satisfaction that Geordi had started to smile at the dramatic image Riker had conjured; Worf never smiled, but at least he had stopped snarling.

Unfortunately, Troi still looked dubious; Riker wondered if she could sense the uneasiness beneath his bluff. To his relief, she played along anyway. “Will, what about Captain Picard? Won’t he suspect that something is going on?”

“Oh, I’ll take care of the captain,” said the first officer without blinking an eye at the ethical contortions that simple statement might involve. “All you have to worry about is improving your game.”

Springing out of his chair, Riker flourished the deck of cards that he had kept nestled in the palm of his hand. Data was right on cue, as well, whipping out his dealer’s visor and a stack of chips.

“We have just enough time for a practice round.”

Riker shuffled the deck back and forth in an arc through the air like a juggler. “Ante up, my friends, ante up. We’re going to be the next poker champions of Starfleet!”

In the normal course of events, Picard resisted the temptation to read while on duty; his love of the written word was so intense and his concentration so focused that he never trusted himself to pay sufficient attention to the demands of command when he held a book in his hand. Just as a proper gentleman never shared his affections with more than one woman at a time, he confined his reading to his leisure hours.

On this mission, however, Picard had decided that a review of T’Sara’s texts would help prepare him for his impending interaction with the scientist. After the briefing session with his senior officers, he had retrieved the Vulcan’s books from his cabin and carried them off to his ready room. He even went so far as to sit on the sofa, rather than behind his desk, but he did so with the firm intention of only glancing at a few of the more recent forewords.

Reading her spare yet elegant prose, he was newly reminded of T’Sara’s ability to present brilliant insights as if they were self-evident truths and to use logic to convince and persuade with a skill that was almost seductive.

For a Vulcan, she possessed a keen understanding of her very emotional subjects.

When the door chime pulled him back to the present, Picard noticed with a start that he had been immersed in Oral Histories from the Andorian Middle Kingdom for over an hour.

And the chime had been ringing repeatedly.

“Come.”

The doors snapped apart and the ship’s first officer barreled through the opening. “Captain, are you al—” Riker skidded to a sudden halt. His worried fro wn transformed into a knowing smile. “Oh, you’ve been reading.”

“Guilty as charged.” Picard sighed and tossed the book aside, only to automatically pick up another in its stead; this second choice had vellum pages that were thickly covered with the patterns of an alien script.

“We’re within hailing distance of Atropos, but we haven’t raised the campsite yet.” Riker canted his head to one side in order to read the title on the spine; his lips tried to form the words, but failed. “I didn’t know you could read Vulcan, Captain.”

“I can’t.” Picard’s eyes skimmed down a page. “At least, I shouldn’t be able to … but occasionally, as I look over the text, I gather a hint of meaning in certain words and phrases.”

“A legacy of your mind-meld with Ambassador Sarek?”

“Yes, I believe so.” Picard set down the book on a side table with an exaggerated care that bordered on reverence. “This volume belonged to him; it was a gift to me from Perrin after his death.”

One of the traits of a good first officer, as well as a good friend, was knowing when to share silence. A few minutes later they walked out of the ready room.

As he crossed the deck of the circular bridge, the captain noted which of his crew were working at the back duty stations. Deanna Troi and Beverly Crusher were already seated in the central command area behind the helm; Ensign Ro and Data were operating the forward stations. All accounted for, all as it should be, but he tried never to take that for granted.

“Still no response from the archaeological camp,” said Worf from the aft deck.

“Continue hailing, Lieutenant,” said Picard as he settled himself down into the captain’s chair between Riker and the ship’s counselor. “Status, Mr. Data?”

“Estimated arrival at Atropos in eleven minutes, thirty-two seconds.”

“Steady as she goes, Helm.” Picard fixed his eyes on the main viewscreen, studying a single pinpoint of starlight and the space that surrounded it. A most unremarkable sight, he concluded. At the beginning of time, when countless cosmic wonders had been sown throughout the galaxy, this area had been overlooked. In fact, to the best of his knowledge, the Federation’s claim to this sector had been made solely to facilitate traffic through the territory; until T’Sara’s expedition, no one had bothered to linger.

Troi spoke quietly, easing her way into his thoughts. “Beverly tells me you’ve followed T’Sara’s scholarship for years. You must be looking forward to meeting her in person.”

“Yes … very much so.” He could never tell when the counselor used her empathic abilities to read him or simply judged his moods by subtle physical cues that he was unable to repress. Either way, Troi always caught him when he was brooding, so there was no point in trying to disguise his one misgiving about this encounter.

“Yet, on the other hand, I do not relish watching another brilliant mind disintegrate from illness.”

“Perhaps T’Sara will be spared Sarek’s fate,” said Crusher. “Medical research has advanced considerably in the last year; treatment, even a cure, may be developed in time to help her. That’s assuming the diagnosis is correct; after all, I haven’t confirmed anything yet.”

“Well,” said Riker. “If she does have Bendii’s, we’d better warn Guinan to put away the breakables in Ten-Forward.”

Crusher shook her head. “Psychic disturbances like the ones broadcast by Ambassador Sarek don’t occur until a more advanced stage of …” She turned to the captain. “I only know that because I’ve been studying the medical literature on the syndrome. Any doctor in the Fleet could read a casebook file and do what I’m doing.”

Just as Picard had feared, Beverly must be suffering the brunt of the crew’s frustration; a speedy conclusion to this diversion would improve tempers all around. “Lieutenant Worf, have you established contact with the Vulcans yet?”

“Channels are open, but they are not answering our hail.”

“You can’t trust a bunch of academics to operate a simple subspace radio,” said Riker with a heartiness that seemed a little forced.

“And archaeologists are the worst offenders,” added Picard. He caught himself rapidly tapping one finger on his armrest and stilled the impatient motion.

“Long-range sensor scan complete, Captain.” Data looked up from his console to confirm the transfer of incoming data to the main viewscreen, then nodded with satisfaction at the image of a marbled orb that appeared there.

“Increasing magnification.”

Picard leaned forward to study the surface features that were slowly coming into focus; gaps in the dusky-red cloud cover revealed mountains, valleys, several large canyons, scattered seas. “Data, are we close enough to scan for life-forms?”

“Accuracy may be somewhat compromised by the distance, but it is technically within range.” After a few minutes of manipulating the console controls, the android turned around to face the captain. “Sensors detect no life-signs.”

Riker shifted uneasily in his chair. “Try another pass, Lieutenant.”

“Scanning the campsite … expanding the search area.” At the sound of a soft beep, Data studied the console output. “Confirmed; there are no discernible life-signs on the surface.”

The captain rose from his chair, taking a step forward as if to confront the planet itself, but the clouds had thickened, shrouding the surface below.

“Well, Number One,” said Picard. “It seems this is not a routine mission after all.”

CHAPTER 2

The United Federation of Planets was founded on a tenet of inclusion. Thus, as Starfleet charted and explored ever greater tracts of space, new worlds and their civilizations were eagerly drawn into the loose web of interstellar government. As in any rapidly growing organization, however, the Federation’s reach occasionally exceeded its grasp.

Inevitably, the grip of central authority weakened as it stretched out to the most recent annexations along an ever-expanding frontier.

Starbase 193 was held very lightly indeed.

From a distance, the station looked like a gleaming metal teardrop suspended in space. Its recent construction guaranteed a level of technology far superior to older, more established structures; and the sophisticated docking and maintenance services it offered were crucial for supporting commercial traffic through the sector.

However, aside from the base itself, Federation presence in the sector consisted of one career officer.

Commander Miyakawa was forced to work without one of the standard benefits of a bureaucratic posting closer to home a well-regulated support staff.

Most of the day-to-day operations of the base were dependent on a shifting pool of labor settlers who had run out of money before reaching their chosen paradise, technicians who had overslept a shore leave and lost their berth on a freighter, or confirmed drifters who would leave when the tendrils of civilization crept too close for comfort.

The permanent inhabitants of Starbase 193 were employed in business ventures of their own.

DaiMon Maarc sauntered into the murky recesses of the Due or Die with an air of confidence that marked him as an especially prosperous merchant among a race of merchants.

His tailored gray business suit was cut to flatter his form; its sleeves were embellished with bands of jewel-encrusted cloth; and the broad, soft collar was studded with gold pins. For a Ferengi, it was a discreet display of solid financial success.

A DaiMon of means would usually avoid a bar as dingy and cramped as the Due or Die.

Beauty was not the only quality that was missing from the establishment; cleanliness and comfort were also in short supply. However, Maarc had little interest in the quality of the decor. Tourists and the credit-poor rabble of the station might come here for cheap drinks, but he had come to see Camenae.

As he threaded his way between wobbling tables, the Ferengi calculated his current cash reserve for speculative ventures. Any purchase he made today would be expensive.

Most of Camenae’s clients came to the bar with a specific question; if they could meet her price, most walked back out with an answer.

Sometimes they paid with a handful of round tokens, the only currency that had any meaning inside the bar, but it was common knowledge that Camenae preferred an exchange for new information to tuck away in anticipation of future requests.

Besides forming the basis for her business, facts were also her private passion, and matching the right fact with the right customer brought Camenae a deep sense of personal satisfaction. So, on occasion she informed certain select individuals that she possessed an answer to a question they hadn’t thought to ask yet.

Just such a notification had reached the Ferengi a few minutes earlier, and he had not wasted any time in responding to the call. Through experience, DaiMon Maarc had learned that Camenae did not let her goods grow stale. He would have been a much richer merchant today if he had paid more attention the first time she offered him a question.

“I’m expected,” boasted Maarc to the Norsican who blocked his way. The guard nodded and stepped back to allow the Ferengi to pass through another door into an even darker room.

Maarc’s steps faltered as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, but there were no unseen obstacles waiting to trip him. Shadows were the only decoration in the bare interior, and the only touch of color was in Camenae’s burgundy robe.

New clients expected a greater display of security, but in time they realized that Camenae stored her most valuable capital beyond anyone’s reach her dark, round face betrayed no secrets, and a sleek cap of black hair covered the impenetrable vault of her mind.

Tokens marking a financial transaction were redeemed elsewhere.

“I got your message.” Maarc settled down at the small table where Camenae held court. “How much will this information cost me?”

She named a sum that made the Ferengi merchant hiss with outrage.

“A consortium of DaiMon in your guild could gather the necessary funds,” she said, unruffled by his reaction. “And given the amount involved, I’m willing to extend a line of credit.”

“That is very generous of you,” he sniffed, “considering that you approached me with this offer. Be warned, I have no intention of assuming a ruinous debt to satisfy your greed.”

“The price would be much higher if you were my first customer.”

“What!” His gnomish face squinched into a mass of creases. A certain amount of theatrics was obligatory, but Maarc’s irritation was only partially feigned.

Camenae shrugged an apology. “My preferred customer list has grown so large that there are, inevitably, certain conflicts of interest.”

“Double insult!”

“It was never my intention to offend, DaiMon.

To make amends for any ill feelings I have inadvertently created, I offer a discount.”

He grunted in disdain, but his nose twitched at the whiff of a bargain. She knew him well enough to sense his renewed interest.

“Against my usual policy,” said Camenae, “I will waive the charge for the question.”

“You would have charged me for the question itself!” This time his outrage was completely genuine.

“Of course,” she said. “Good questions are often far more valuable than the answers.”

“You should have been a Ferengi.” Maarc’s good humor was partially restored by her audacity. “So, what is the question I should have asked?”

When he heard Camenae’s reply, the DaiMon quickly reached into his vest pocket.

Withdrawing his hand, he placed a token on the table. “Here is a deposit. I will raise the full sum of the answer’s price within the hour.”

He stacked a second token on top of the first. “I will double the amount if you also tell me the identity of your first client.”

Then he added a third token to the pile. “And I will triple the amount if I am your last client to receive this information.”

Camenae smiled as she gathered up the coins.

“It’s always a pleasure doing business with a professional, DaiMon Maarc.”

CHAPTER 3

As the Enterprise swung into orbit around the yellow sun’s lone planet, Counselor Troi had already begun her reconnaissance work for the mission. However, unlike the Away Team members who would soon transport to the ground below, her terrain was the flaring emotions of the crew.

Data’s announcement had set off a tremor of tension through the bridge, and Picard sat at its epicenter. His rising anger was probably rooted in frustration at arriving too late to prevent whatever catastrophe had occurred on Atropos. Since the captain had a tendency to view this type of event as a personal failure, Troi made a mental note to monitor this reaction over the next few days.

There should be no problem unless he persisted in blaming himself, but Picard usually recovered his perspective without her intervention.

Troi had exerted her empathic abilities to read the captain, but she strengthened her block against Will Riker’s mind; Imzadi was all too easy to read, and at close quarters his emotions blared out like a siren. Each visit to a new world keyed the first officer’s nerves with excitement, but this time the additional element of unknown danger let loose a surge of adrenalin that urged him to leap forward, to move, to run, to shout. Riker continued to sit quietly in place next to the captain, but she could see the younger man’s cheeks flushing from the strain; still, he would be fine as soon as he had permission to lead the Away Team to the surface.

Beverly Crusher was another matter; her anticipation had soured into apprehension when she learned the results of the sensor scan.

“Beverly?”

“At least before I had a chance of helping my patient,” said the doctor under her breath so only Troi could hear her. “Now …” She lifted the medical field kit off her lap and slung its strap over one shoulder in preparation for the Away Team’s departure.

“Landing coordinates confirmed,” announced Data as the flow of sensor information to the computers finally slowed. “The campsite appears intact.”

Captain Picard’s silent nod released a storm of movement.

Riker shot out of his chair, finger stabbing at the two helm positions. “Ro, Data, with me.”

Dr. Crusher was already ahead of him, striding up the ramp to the aft turbolift.

“Energizing.”

At the sound of Chief O’Brien’s warning, Crusher braced herself for the frisson of the transporter beam. Seconds later, a whistling shiver rippled its way through the cells of her body, and when the shiver faded, the bright glare of sunlight stabbed her eyes. She dropped her head down, blinking furiously to clear away the dancing hot spots on her retinas. When the doctor’s vision cleared, she could see her boots resting on a ground cover of orange moss.

She could also see a dead body lying at her feet.

Crusher lifted her gaze and counted three more bodies of Vulcans in the campsite one stretched across the threshold of a field tent, two others fallen in a tangled heap onto the ground in the center of the compound. More bodies were probably hidden amidst the ancient, weathered blocks of stone that had tumbled from their foundations.

“Well, that accounts for four out of the ten,” she said, pulling out her medical tricorder. She passed the instrument over a Vulcan male in his middle years, but the scan was little more than a formality since the cause of death was all too obvious his chest and face were charred from a close-range phaser blast.

She proceeded on to the intertwined bodies.

Dropping down to a crouch, she started another scan.

At Riker’s direction, the rest of the Away Team kept moving, spreading out to survey the area around the landing coordinates. Their progress was slow as they skirted crumbling walls and broken columns and sought firm footing over piles of debris.

“There’s someone over here,” called out Ro.

Crusher glanced up to watch as the ensign stepped over a moss-covered ridge to inspect her discovery. Whatever she saw on the other side sent the Bajoran stumbling backward. “Also dead.”

The doctor bent back down to complete her inspection. The man and woman appeared to have been struggling over the phaser locked in the grip of the man’s hand, then both had been killed by its activation.

“Some of the equipment was also damaged by phaser fire,” said Commander Riker when he had circled back to the starting point. “But the wreckage is haphazard and nothing of value appears to have been taken.”

Just their lives, thought Crusher, as she snapped shut the scanner.

Riker sighed as he surveyed the carnage.

“We had outbreaks of violence on the Enterprise when Ambassador Sarek was on board; could T’Sara’s illness have triggered a mass homicidal rage among these Vulcans?”

“Please, Commander,” protested the doctor, as she rose to her feet. “It’s far too early for me to speculate on—” “Over here!” Data rarely raised his voice; she and Riker whirled around at the android’s shout. “I detect life-signs ahead … extremely faint.”

Crusher broke into a run to follow Data down a twisting path, rushing past more dead bodies, ignoring everything but the call of the living.

It was a very weak call indeed.

When Crusher fell to her knees by the side of the elderly Vulcan woman, she feared that Data was mistaken or that T’Sara had loosed her hold on life only seconds before their arrival. The shadows of a looming tower had shielded the archaeologist from the full heat of the planet’s sun, but the phaser wounds on her side and shoulder should have killed her long before.

“Data, I’m not getting any readings.”

Then the medscanner trilled once; the life-signs were not only faint, they were also widely spaced.

“Of course,” said Crusher. “She’s in a Vulcan healing trance. I must get her up to the ship immediately.” She hit her comm link.

“Emergency transport! Two to sickbay.”

T’Sara was no heavier than a child when Crusher gathered her up in her arms. The doctor whispered in the woman’s ear, “You’re safe, you’re among friends, and you’re going to live!”

As the transporter beam took hold of the doctor and her patient, Beverly Crusher hoped she could keep that last promise.

Over the many years of their service together, Picard had learned to trust his crew’s observations and perceptions, to let them serve as his eyes and ears on Away missions. This rapport had helped ease the captain’s sense of frustration at remaining so far removed from the reconnaissance of Atropos.

The planet loomed large in the conference room windows as two members of the landing party summarized their activities of the last few hours. Between Data’s detailed recital of the essential facts and Riker’s more subjective evocation of the carnage, Picard was able to recreate their experience in his own mind.

His first officer had worked his way through a list of the dead to the last archaeologist. “We finally found Skorret at the bottom of one of the excavation pits. He had been working near the edge, evidently cataloging some ceremonial weapons, when someone took the broken shard of a sword and stabbed him through the back.”

“I detected blood-stained fingerprints on the hilt,” said Data, “so it will be possible to determine who is responsible for Skorret’s murder. Unfortunately, culpability will prove more difficult to establish in most of the other cases.”

“Under the circumstances,” said Riker, “the question of guilt or innocence hardly matters since the murderers are all dead, t oo. Assigning blame for this tragedy won’t provide much comfort to their families.”

In Picard’s experience, Vulcans were less interested in comfort than in truth. “This is not so much a matter of justice, Number One, as it is of discovery. In order to unravel why these murders occurred, we must catalog the way in which they occurred.”

“Standard forensic recovery procedures are already in effect,” confessed the first officer. “Two paramedic teams have been assigned to remove the bodies from the planet surface and take them to sickbay for autopsies.”

As Picard suspected, Riker’s instincts were sound, even when he professed to balk at Data’s dispassionate perspective. The captain smiled at the quizzical look on Data’s face. The android appeared confused by the apparent contradiction between the first officer’s words and his actions.

Checking a final notation on his padd, Riker then said, “Lieutenant Worf will supervise the removal of the team’s personal effects from the planet surface, but what should we do about the research equipment and camp facilities?”

Unfortunately, Picard realized, this was one detail Commander Miyakawa had not thought to clarify in her briefing report. “Data, check the camp records to see who has jurisdiction over the property. We’ll need instructions on whether the excavation will continue without T’Sara and the other Vulcans.”

“I can’t imagine it would be abandoned,” said Riker. “From what I saw, the ruins are quite extensive. There must be hundreds of artifacts to be recovered.”

“How odd.” The first officer’s observation triggered a new avenue of curiosity for Picard. “What you describe would be considered a major research project, yet I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of this site before.”

“Falling behind on your journal reading, sir?”

“On the contrary,” said Picard. Having achieved minor acclaim as an amateur archaeologist, he made a concerted effort to remain current in the field. “I used to follow T’Sara’s research reports with great interest, but her last publication appeared nearly two decades ago, before the departure of the Stargazer on an extended deepspace mission.

By the time I returned to the Federation, I had lost track of her whereabouts.”

As soon as the captain turned to Data, the android nodded and said, “I will broaden my search to cover a profile of the expedition.”

“Thank you, Mr. Data.”

The background information would be useful, but Picard doubted it would provide any insight into the mystery of the violence on Atropos.

Instead, his thoughts shifted to sickbay, where the answers to his most pressing questions lay just out of reach, locked deep in T’Sara’s mind.

He would continue his investigation there.

She had a gaunt, wrinkled face and hair leached white by the passage of centuries.

Curled on her side, covered by a light blanket, T’Sara appeared to be sleeping peacefully on the diagnostic bed. The only clue to her steep dive into a healing trance was the weak flutter of indicators on the medical scanner; her life-signs barely registered.

The loose sleeve of Beverly Crusher’s coat brushed against Picard’s arm. He couldn’t tell if the doctor had moved to his side to offer silent comfort or to seek it out for herself.

“She’s much frailer than I expected,” whispered Picard. He knew T’Sara was unable to hear him, yet he couldn’t bring himself to speak louder. “Her writing is so robust that I unconsciously imagined her to be a Vulcan Amazon, strong-limbed and tall.”

“She must have an incredibly strong constitution to remain alive this long.” Crusher’s voice matched Picard’s in softness. “Professionally speaking, there’s little more that I can do for her except trust that the powers of her mind will heal the damage.”

He stepped away from the bedside so that he could speak more freely. “The recovery work on Atropos is only beginning, but I will order an immediate departure if you feel her condition warrants the attention of a starbase medical facility.”

“No.” Crusher’s answer was swift and firm. “I’ve already discussed that option with Dr.

Selar, and we both determined that our medical assistance is equal to any provided outside of Vulcan. We could never reach one of their master healers in time to make any difference to T’Sara’s recovery. The outcome will be settled within the next twenty-four hours … one way or another.”

Her prediction measured out hope and despair in equal portions. Picard decided he must balance his expectations on the same razor-edge of uncertainty.

One of the medical staff had been hovering discreetly out of range of the conversation between the captain and his chief medical officer. She quickly took advantage of Picard’s silence and stepped forward.

“Yes, Nurse D’Airo?” asked Crusher.

“The first shipment from the planet surface has arrived.”

Picard could see the muscles in Beverly’s neck tighten, and he realized the nurse was referring to the bodies of the Vulcan archaeologists. The doctor’s voice flattened into a monotone as she issued a set of instructions concerning the preparations in the two surgical suites in sickbay.

When Nurse D’Airo had jotted the last instruction on her data padd and slipped away, Crusher turned back around to face the captain.

“I hate autopsies,” she said with a grimace.

“When do you need these results?”

“As soon as possible. Until T’Sara awakens, the results of the examinations are our only clues to explaining the murders. Not to mention that those results may serve to corroborate her future testimony.”

“What?” said Crusher. “Captain, you make her sound like a suspect in the murders.

Remember that she was one of the victims.”

“Beverly, given Sorren’s misgivings about T’Sara’s failing mental health, I can’t afford to accept her explanation of the events on Atropos without some supporting evidence.”

Looking over at the huddled figure of the elderly Vulcan, Picard wondered if she would live long enough to tell her version.

The encampment on Atropos was still bathed in daylight when the Enterprise cycled into night.

Seventeen hours after the priority distress call had pulled the starship off its course, weary crewmembers drifted into Ten-Forward or sought quiet refuge in their quarters; corridors fell silent, drained of their traffic; and lights dimmed or guttered into darkness.

Of course, there were some exceptions—a few stubborn pockets of activity—and one of these was the captain’s ready room.

Picard rubbed the bridge of his nose in a futile effort to ease his aching head and blurring vision, then he scanned the text on his desk computer one more time.

“No, that’s not right either,” he muttered and tapped a key that would delete the paragraph he had just written.

The preliminary mission reports to Miyakawa and Starfleet command had been easy to draft, but the captain was experiencing more difficulty with his personal message to the director of the Vulcan Science Academy.

On the surface, Vulcan culture was straightforward and rational, but appearances could be deceiving; logic took some unexpected twists and turns when mixed with primal issues such as murder and death. Picard had written and rewritten his description of T’Sara’s injury and the death of her colleagues, but although his instincts could lead him away from certain phrases that might offend, he was less sure of what words to put in their place.

The trill of the ready room doorbell was a welcome distraction from the frustration of his task.

“Come,” called out Picard, then waved his visitor to one of the chairs on the other side of the desk.

“Good evening, Captain,” said Data with typical formality. “I apologize for taking so long to prepare my report. I was delayed by an unfortunate discovery the camp’s computer data files were erased by the electromagnetic pulse from a phaser blast.”

Merde. Picard assumed the Vulcans were methodical enough to maintain duplicate records elsewhere, possibly at Starbase 193, but tracking them down would take more time.

“Fortunately,” said Data, “I was able to reconstruct the broad outlines of the expedition’s history from our own library archives. The project’s formation was quite unusual.”

“In what way?” asked Picard.

“Earlier Federation surveys established that most items of note were removed from Atropos several hundred years ago by the original inhabitants. Although the reasons are obscure, the colony was deliberately and methodically abandoned, thus rendering it of minimal scholastic value. As a result, T’Sara was unable to secure support from academic institutions to explore the ruins, and eventually she sold her family estate on Vulcan to fund the venture herself.”

“A private expedition? That certainly bespeaks considerable dedication.” T’Sara’s reputation for radical departures from conventional scholarship was well-founded. “So what was the basis for her fascination with Atropos?”

“The avowed purpose was considered to be “illogical,” even downright eccentric.

T’Sara claimed that an artifact called the Ko N’ya was buried somewhere on the planet.”

“The Ko N’ya?”

“Yes,” said the android. “The Ko N’ya is—” “Thank you, Data.” Picard had become adept at stemming the android’s excess of information. “However, an explanation won’t be necessary. I’m quite familiar with the legends of the Ko N’ya, quite familiar indeed.”

Ko N’ya.

Years had passed since Picard had uttered that name aloud. The emotions it evoked were rooted in childhood and threaded through the long years of his adulthood. His earliest recollections surfaced first and sent a shudder of excitement and fear up his spine and out through the tips of his fingers.

It was a delicious sensation.

CHAPTER 4

When the Iconian people fled through the Gateway to seek safe havens, Ikkabar was the most inviting of the new worlds. Its lush plains and shallow seas were familiar to homesick eyes, and a walk along the curving coastlines of the northern continent could trick the mind into thinking Iconia’s destruction had been nothing more than a fading nightmare.

To this first generation of settlers, Ikkabar was a clean slate on which to reconstruct their history and culture. They raised cities filled with the same delicate architecture that had been trammeled to dust by enemy weapons, then they picked up the threads of their past lives as if nothing had changed. Many called the planet New Iconia, and this belief in a serene rebirth clouded their vision with bright colors that had been mixed under the light of a different sun.

The next generation was not so complacent.

Children born to this world saw more clearly than their elders; young eyes were not so easily fooled by the appearance of tranquillity. There were shadows on this landscape that had not been charted, subtle intimations of a darker geographic history that no one had bothered to read. The children still called themselves Iconians, but they restored the planet’s name to Ikkabar as a reminder that they were strangers to this place.

Over the following centuries, vague fears of lurking danger began to harden into grim knowledge. The temperate climate that had greeted the early settlers was only a brief respite in a pendulum swing from one harsh extreme to another.

The planet’s orbit was irregular in the extreme, and its climate equally so; there came a time when the warm seas dried entirely in the heat of summer, leaving nothing but sucking mud flats that stretched to the far horizon; in winter, torrential rains washed away the mud and flooded the plains. Growing seasons contracted, bringing famine to a people who had never wanted for food. The foundations of their buildings began to shift and slide in the softened ground, then harden at angles with their walls cracked open and lofty spirals splintered.

Old traditions were abandoned as each succeeding generation desperately searched for new ways to grow food and to build structures that could safely house their families. Nevertheless, their offworld heritage was still treasured. When Ikkabar cycled back to a temperate climate and the halcyon days of legend returned, the Iconians rejoiced. There was talk of a cultural renaissance, and ancient tomes, carefully preserved, were opened and read by those who still retained some measure of that dying skill.

The joy was short-lived. Bitter disappointment took its place as the weather began to grow colder, and the seas turned to ice rather than mud.

Much of the knowledge brought from Iconia was lost forever as precious books were burned as fuel. A few of the elders fought to save those relics; they were burned as well.

The hardy survivors of ancient Iconia now called themselves the Ikkabar. They moved from their ice-block fortresses to grass huts and back again with greater ease and fewer deaths, but even so, their numbers continued to dwindle.

Few remembered the sprawling cities that had been their first home; however, the buried remnants of these ancient settlements served as a beacon to space-faring races. The sensors of a passing Federation starship traced the record of past grandeur hidden beneath layers of ice and mud, and a discreet probe gathered data on the people who lived on this harsh planet. Little was done with the knowledge until an ethnographer at the Vulcan Academy of Science happened to read the field report.

Each year after that, T’Sara petitioned the Federation for a more extensive survey of Ikkabar, and each year she was refused, but her constant pressure pushed its name higher and higher on the list of projects waiting for funding and personnel. At last, eight years after its first visit, the USS Galeone returned to the planet.

There were even fewer people alive on the surface now.

The census results unleashed a storm of controversy among the members of the survey team.

T’Sara led a faction that favored First Contact so the Federation could provide aid to the scattered hunting tribes scrabbling for food. The Vulcan argued that these were the descendants of a people dependant on a highly developed technological culture. They were ill-matched to this primitive world and its demands; and just as one rescued the crew of a wrecked ship, these people were in dire need of assistance.

Unfortunately, her evidence for this theory was weak. Memories of Iconia and the Gateway had degenerated into a vague creation myth of a lost paradise, and the similarities to real places and events were impossible to corroborate. The opposing faction in the observation team maintained that the hunters were native to Ikkabar and that their evolutionary history had been erased by the same climatic upheavals that had toppled their ancient civilization.

That winter, more of the Ikkabar died than were born.

Despite the continuing drop in numbers, T’Sara could not convince her colleagues that this was not part of the normal fluctuations of population growth. There was ample precedent for the wisdom of leaving a preliterate culture in strict isolation, so the expedition withdrew.

As decades passed, one after another of the observation probes malfunctioned, stressed beyond tolerance by the brutal weather. Mounting tensions between the Federation and its enemies channeled Starfleet resources in other directions, so the probes remained silent for several years.

When the Federation was finally free to turn its attention back to Ikkabar, the children of Iconia had lost their battle to survive on this third world. All that remained of these long-suffering people was one hungry child found huddled by the coals of a fading fire.

The boy clung to his alien saviors with a desperation born of fear and loneliness. With what little they knew of his language the crew of the USS Clements learned he was called Kanda Jiak. T’Sara could have explained the importance of this name, but she had left Vulcan to continue her search for the Ko N’ya, and the news never reached her.

Fourteen years and a few months after he was rescued from Ikkabar, young Kanda Jiak took his first trembling steps toward reclaiming his lost Iconian heritage.

The decision to set off on this quest had been made on the eve of Jiak’s departure from his second home on Redifer III. Perhaps it had been made even earlier, because he was one of the few students on that world who applied to an off-planet college. In either case, the trip to Terra Sol University had provided him with a convenient cover for leaving Redifer, one that would not arouse any opposition from his parents.

His resolve held firm throughout the first week of travel away from home, but when the passenger liner actually docked at Starbase 75, Jiak cowered in his cabin for the first hour of the brief shore leave. It would be so much easier, so much safer, to continue on to Earth as everyone expected him to do.

His quest could wait until he was older.

Yet somehow the last survivor of Ikkabar suspected that if he failed to act now, he would never walk down this path in the future. After a few more years, Kanda Jiak would be fully assimilated into his life as a citizen of the Federation. The tattered threads of his origins were already worn too thin for memory; what little he knew of his people came from reading the ethnography reports from the crew of the Galeone.

So, just a few minutes before the passenger recall sounded, Jiak walked off the transport liner.

He had half-hoped someone would stop him, but the ship’s first officer had smiled perfunctorily at the request to permanently disembark, and a harried crewman had ushered him to the docking gate. Evidently passengers frequently changed their itinerary midway through a trip.

Jiak faced a second trial of courage when he walked through the series of interconnecting domes that formed the main terminal. Overwhelmed by the massive complex and the jostling crowds that surged in currents around him, he felt like a small boy about to drown in a treacherous sea.

Rooted in place by fear and indecision, he automatically scanned the stream of alien faces for one that matched his own in color and shape. It was an old habit, a holdover from his early childhood when he still believed that someday his own people would miraculously appear to whisk him back to Ikkabar. Over the years he had grown to love his adopted world and his foster parents, yet the impulse to search persisted. On all of Redifer, and even here where over a dozen different races were passing by him every minute, Jiak was unique.

That would change soon.

“Hey! Are you lost?” The question was followed by a sharp jab to his arm.

“No,” he said, turning to face his inquisitor.

“You look very lost.” The woman was dressed in a rumpled blue jumpsuit, but he noticed the row of captain’s pips on the collar. They weren’t Starfleet design, so she was in charge of a civilian ship, possibly a freighter.

“I know where I am now,” said Jiak, mustering a bravado he did not feel, “and I know where I’m going next, so I don’t see how I could be lost.”

Her hand darted upward to tuck a stray wisp of her hair back into place. It was a futile effort; the twisted braid she wore was bristling with errant curls. “So where are you going?”

His final destination was none of her business, yet the young man was grateful for her concern, even if it was rather roughly expressed. Jiak compromised by revealing an intermediate stop.

“Well, as it happens, I’m on my way to Davenport V.”

The captain snorted derisively at his answer. “And have you already got a ticket?”

He shook his head. “I need to buy one now.

I’d be in your debt if you could show me where to—” “It’s not a big tourist spot and that means top rates.” Then she quoted the price of passage to that distant world.

The cost was staggeringly high. Jiak had been sure his spending allowance for the first term would cover all his travel expenses, but instead this one ticket would wipe out the entire allotment on his credit chip. He would be left with no funds for the final leg of his journey from Davenport to DiWahn.

His dismay must have been obvious, because the woman sighed heavily. “Go back home, kid.”

“I’m not a kid, and I’ll find another way to get there.” He would have to find it soon. In another few days his mother and father would learn that he had never reached Earth and would begin to trace his steps. They had no authority to stop him now that he was of age, but Jiak wanted to escape their pleas for him to return to the comforting familiarity of Redifer.

As if she had been reading his thoughts, the woman said, “I guess you’re too old to be running away from home, but you’re still young enough to have stardust in your eyes. That won’t last long on my ship.”

“What did you say?” asked Jiak.

“The name is Captain Del,” she snapped, “and I’m not offering you a glamorous job. Some kids expect a joyride through space, but you’ll work damn hard for your berth.”

“I don’t want glamour, just free passage off this starbase.”

“As long as you remember that, we’ll get along fine.” Del jabbed a finger at the bundle by his feet. “Is that all your freight?”

“Yes. I travel light.”

“Good.” She smiled her approval at this evidence of thrift. “Come on, then. Don’t dally. I have a tight delivery schedule.”

Still too startled to fully grasp his good fortune, Jiak hoisted the backpack into place and trotted after Del.

In truth, he hadn’t had time to retrieve the rest of his luggage from the passenger liner, and those heavy cases were on their way to Earth by now. With careful tending, however, he could make do with the one change of clothing he carried with him.

His only other remaining possession, the one that weighed most heavily on his shoulders, was a copy of T’Sara’s Legends of the Iconian Diaspora.

CHAPTER 5

Even from his position at an aft station console, Data easily followed the overlapping exchange between Captain Picard and Dr. Crusher.

“I’m sorry, Captain, but there has been no change in her—” “What about the—” “The autopsy reports are still being—” “Let me know as soon as you have anything to report.”

Data noted the way in which the two officers consistently anticipated the next request for information. Humans persisted in this curious behavior even though his own observations indicated that it often led to misunderstandings.

Data heard the captain’s chair creak ever so softly as Picard’s weight was lifted from the cushions. With his acute senses, the android easily followed the sound of Picard’s distinctive tread as he moved up a side ramp to the elevated deck. He walked to a spot just behind Data’s chair and stopped.

“Yes, Captain?” Data turned around, thus observing the cultural dictate of face-to-face interpersonal interaction.

“I’d like to see the team profiles again.”

Data had kept the files cued for instant access. On reflection, he realized that this was an example of anticipating the captain’s request.

Picard leaned over Data’s shoulder and called the names out one by one. “Skorret …

Sohle … Sorren …”

Data was careful to run the biographical profiles at a speed that would accommodate the captain’s slower neural responses. The android’s own positronic brain had already committed all the information on the archaeological team to memory after one scan, but he accepted the fact that Humans required this continual review process to fully assimilate new information.

“Soth … T’Challo … Tessin …”

The lagging pace was never boring, however, because Data could occupy himself with alternate sensory input, such as the conversations of the bridge crew passing by the science station; he could also generate simulated poker hands to calculate odds and refine his betting strategy; or he could compare various renditions of musical compositions to better understand the aesthetic impact of a conductor’s style. At the moment, he was doing all three of the above.

“Run the Vulcan distress call again,” said Picard.

“Yes, Captain.”

Data cued the transmission to begin with the archaeology team’s identification frame, written in both Vulcan and Federation Standard.

This was followed by the image of a Vulcan male with the long face and high cheekbones characteristic of his species; although exact age was always difficult to determine in such a long-lived race, he appeared to be less than a half-century old.

He was dressed in a dusty worksuit; the ruins of an ancient alien edifice served as his backdrop.

“I am Sorren, assistant to our expedition leader, T’Sara. It is the consensus of the archaeological team that T’Sara is in need of medical attention. Her behavior is growing increasingly erratic she is prone to outbursts of emotion and persists in …”

[crackle] …

“There,” said Picard, with a jabbing motion of his hand. Data responded instantly, freezing the badly fragmented image on the screen. “That short burst of static obliterates part of Sorren’s message. From the context, it appears to be an elaboration of what constitutes T’Sara’s erratic behavior.” The hand dropped and Data continued the review.

“… is my belief these symptoms are characteristic of Bendii’s syndrome. I request immediate transport so that T’Sara can receive appropriate medical treatment before her condition deteriorates any further.”

Data stopped the recording and waited for the captain’s next command.

“That missing segment was unimportant while Sorren was alive,” said Picard with a thoughtful rub of his chin. “But now it may be our only clue as to what happened in the camp these last few days. Is there any way to recover the information?”

“If the team followed standard communications procedures, an intact original would be stored in the memory banks of the subspace radio transmitter. Unfortunately, the equipment damage erased all records of previous activity.”

“Just as the expedition’s data files were destroyed,” said Picard. “If this vandalism is an example of T’Sara’s “erratic” behavior, she was also extremely methodical in its execution.”

Data added two new tracks of activity to his mental processes. In one of them, he analyzed the captain’s voice and identified the stress pattern as indicative of irritation, suspicion, and curiosity; of all the crew, Data found Picard’s complex emotional states the most challenging to unravel. The second train of thought led to an announcement. “Captain, I have identified the static interference as a substantial burst of Hovorka radiation.”

Given the captain’s lack of reaction, Data belatedly realized that the conundrum was not self-evident.

“Hovorka emissions are generated during the collapse of brown dwarf stars, but there are no such sources for this radiation anywhere in this sector or in the area stretching between this solar system and Starbase 193.”

“Then how can you account for its presence?”

“I cannot.” Then, anticipating the captain’s next question, Data said, “Neither can I theorize a connection between the events on the planet and this anomaly; nevertheless, the radiation should not be there.”

Picard was just as quick at anticipating Data’s next request.

“You know how I feel about mysteries, Mr.

Data; it may be inconsequential, but I still want it explained. Proceed with your investigation.”

The slow, measured beat of the diagnostic scanner exploded into a flurry of sounds and flashing lights. Seconds later the chief medical officer and two nurses were clustered around T’Sara’s bed. The Vulcan woman had remained limp and unresponsive when her wounds were first tended, but now her limbs twitched ever so slightly with muscular tension.

“She appears to be coming out of the healing state,” said Crusher as she tracked the life function indicators. Despite the wild fluctuations, the overall pattern was of an increase in cellular and metabolic activity. “But dammit, it’s too soon! The tissue damage has barely begun to regenerate. If she wakes up now, she’ll die of her injuries.”

At this point, Crusher knew the ideal treatment was for a Vulcan healer to forge a mind-link and guide the patient back into the trance, but not even Selar was qualified to initiate that therapy.

Fortunately, there were cruder methods available to persuade the body to resume its regenerative efforts.

“Ten cc’s of Tochizine.” Crusher held out her hand and felt the satisfying weight of a loaded hypospray slap into her open palm.

The doctor pressed the instrument against the base of the patient’s neck and triggered a spray of the drug through the skin.

“Metabolic activity is stabilizing … decreasing,” confirmed Nurse D’Airo. She began to read off the declining values, then paused. When she resumed the count, the numbers were climbing again.

“Fifteen cc’s of D’armacol,” ordered Crusher, but neither that nor an additional fifteen cc’s of Hyzolidine had any lasting effect on the readouts. “It’s as if her body is constantly adjusting to the injections and neutralizing the effects.”

Crusher accepted a recharged hypo from D’Airo and positioned it against bare skin, but she did not trigger the blast. The Vulcan’s drive to regain consciousness could not be repressed without a massive chemical assault tha t would do equal damage to her weakened system.

Then T’Sara snapped open her eyes; they were onyx-black and clear of any confusion.

“All right,” said Crusher softly. “If this is what you want.”

T’Sara extended a thin, spindly arm toward the doctor. From a Human the gesture might have appeared imploring, but there was no mistaking the imperious demand of a Vulcan. The fingers of the hand flexed, then clenched like steel clamps around a fold of Beverly’s coat. Even nearing death, T’Sara had sufficient strength to pull the doctor closer until the old woman’s mouth was pressed against Crusher’s ear.

T’Sara’s hoarse whisper was like a gust of desert air. “Ko N’ya … the blood never stops flowing.”

Picard had managed to catch a few hours sleep since his last visit to sickbay, but he suspected his chief medical officer had not been so lucky. Standing in the close confines of her office, he could hear a rasp in Beverly’s voice and see dark smudges forming beneath her eyes.

“Are you sure that’s what she said?” asked Riker.

“Yes, I’m sure.” Crusher had delivered her medical report with a crisp detachment, but now that it was over she shoved aside her medical padd and sagged back into her desk chair.

“T’Sara spoke quite clearly … before she died.”

Picard saw Beverly’s gaze shift away to the sickbay ward outside her office; he glanced back in time to see two nurses lift a still, covered body onto an antigrav sled.

By the time he and Riker left this office, T’Sara would be gone, whisked away from the presence of the living.

Having witnessed Sarek’s last days of suffering from Bendii’s syndrome, Picard wondered if this was a more merciful end.

“What does that mean? Ko Ni—” Riker faltered over the delicate contraction of the syllables.

“Ko N’ya,” corrected the captain with a grasp of the inflection that came naturally to him through long usage. “The name is ancient, with origins in a pre-Reform Vulcan dialect. There is no direct translation, but the cultural concept is roughly analogous to “the Devil’s Heart”.”

Crusher frowned at the explanation. “What an odd choice for one’s dying words.”

“Not so odd for this particular Vulcan,” said Picard. “For the past two decades, T’Sara has … had been obsessed with tracing an object which she believed appeared in the mythology of disparate worlds. Her theory, widely discounted by other scholars and historians, is that this talisman really did exist and that it was the factual source for all those legends. She also believed that the Ko N’ya had somehow ended up on Atropos, and she spent the last ten years trying to find it there.”

“What a waste,” said Riker. “Could this obsession of hers have been caused by the Bendii’s?”

“Would everyone please stop speculating ahead of the evidence,” snapped Crusher. “Sorren was an archaeologist, not a doctor, and he was not qualified to diagnose such an extremely rare disease. Until my lab tests confirm—” “How soon—” began Picard.

“I’m working as fast as I can, Captain,” said Crusher stiffly. “My staff is working as fast as they can. When the results are ready, I’ll let—” She stopped suddenly, took a deep breath, then began again. “And when I’ve gotten some sleep, I may even remember how to be civil again.”

“No offense taken, Doctor,” said Picard. Sleep might help, but he suspected her weariness had another, darker, source; Beverly’s next task was all too obvious.

His chief medical officer rose from behind her desk. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have another autopsy to attend to.”

“Captain?”

“Sorry, Number One,” said Picard, when he realized that he was still standing in the corridor outside sickbay, lost in thoughts of T’Sara and her fruitless quest. He launched himself forward, setting a brisk pace. “You were saying?”

Riker fell into step beside him. “According to Worf’s progress report, the research camp is almost completely dismantled. We should be able to break orbit in the next few hours.”

“Not yet,” said Picard. “Not until we have a clear idea of what happened down on the surface. We may need to examine the site again.”

There was sufficient truth in this statement to ease Picard’s conscience. An additional, unspoken reason was his need to make peace with T’Sara’s murder. His grief at the scholar’s death was more intellectual than emotional, yet an empty feeling of deep loss could not be dislodged no matter how fast he walked.

“I think it’s time for me to see Atropos for myself.” Without slowing his pace, Picard executed an abrupt turn to his right and marched through the open doors of a turbolift that had just discharged a passenger. “Deck 6.”

Riker dashed into the compartment just before the doors closed. As the turbolift whined into motion, the first officer said, “Are you going down there as an archaeologist or as a detective?”

“A bit of both,” admitted Picard, “but also to pay my respects.”

When T’Sara’s life had been cut short, her ceaseless quest for the mythic Ko N’ya had also come to an end. Atropos, with its covering of ruins, was a fitting tombstone for both of them.

The hard metallic grill of the transporter platform transmuted into spongy turf, and Picard felt his boots sink ever so slightly into the ground.

He surveyed his surroundings, from the plants crushed under his boots to the strange jumble of ruins, like the bleached bones of an ancient goliath scattered all around him.

Massive tiles had once paved the area with alternating squares of bright colors, but their pattern was disrupted now. Some tiles had settled unevenly, their surfaces tilted at wild angles; others were shattered into pieces; all were smeared with a thick layer of dust and dirt.

In the center of the plaza was a jagged ring of stone, all that remained of a high tower that had crumbled down to its base. Judging from the amount of debris, the structure had dwarfed every other building within miles; even its ruins still reached high enough to block out the sun.

The air was dry and tartly scented, and he inhaled deeply, eager to flush his lungs of the odorless mixture of gases that filled the starship. Picard smiled, savoring the feel of his mind stretching to encompass an alien landscape.

The smile faded when he caught sight of a small metallic tag driven into the ground; it marked where a body had been found. Four archaeologists had died in the plaza that sprawled out before him.

Lieutenant Worf stepped out of the shadows where he had been waiting for the captain’s arrival.

He pointed to a marker by his feet. “T’Sara fell here.”

Three other tags were arranged in a rough semicircle around the Klingon, placed where the archaeologists had gathered to face their leader.

According to Riker’s mission report, Soth and T’Challo were also armed, and T’Sara was caught in their cross fire.

Picard tried to reconstruct the scene in his mind, but it was difficult to place Vulcans in the midst of such violence. For ten years T’Sara and her colleagues had patiently worked their way through these ruins. What combination of actions and reactions among them could have led to this fatal tableau?

“Lieutenant, where was their last excavation site?”

“Over here.” Worf retreated into the shadows.

The captain followed, picking his way through a maze of fallen blocks, wary of loose tiles that rocked underfoot.

“We removed a scanner and several sonic tools from this area,” said Worf.

As his eyes adjusted to the shade, Picard could see that a patch of ground had been cleared of stones to provide access to a delicate bas relief of hieroglyphics carved on the tower wall. One section was partially restored, but if the Vulcans had managed to decipher the alien language, the message had been lost again when the expedition’s data files were erased.

“I had hoped for something more momentous,” said Picard with a sigh, “but I’m afraid this would only have been a footnote in her latest—” He spied a black shadow breaking the expanse of gray wall; it was tall and narrow, like a doorway.

Curiosity demanded an explanation. Picard walked to the wall, but even up close his eyes strained to see through the opening. He stretched out an arm. His hand sank into the darkness and touched air that was several degrees cooler than where he stood.

“Another footnote?” asked Worf.

“Perhaps. Why don’t we find out?”

Picard stepped through the opening.

The tunnel was narrow—he could hear the sound of Worf’s shoulders brushing against the sides of polished stone—and if the light grew any dimmer he would be foolish to forge ahead. The darkness did not thicken, however. Instead, a glowing light beckoned him to continue his exploration.

They soon discovered that the illumination came from a field lamp abandoned in the corridor. Its light revealed that the end of the tunnel had once been bricked over, but the archaeologists had cut through the barrier to reach the circular chamber beyond.

“More than a footnote,” said Picard when he caught sight of the interior.

A huge throne, hewn out of the same stone as the tower above, was set in the center of the bare room.

The attenuated figure that sat on the throne was no statue, however. On his first breath, Picard had inhaled the musty odor of mummification. Skin and tissue had dried, shrinking against the skeleton beneath.

In life, the alien had been tall and willowy; in death, it was crouched like a spider in its web.

“It’s holding something,” he said, observing how its arms and hands came together as if cupping a small object in its palms. When Picard approached for a better look, his boots stirred dust motes of decay into the still air.

The object was gone.

He knew the prickle of apprehension that shuddered through hi m was irrational and unwarranted.

Surely, the contents of this chamber must have been plundered centuries before the Vulcans had set foot on the planet.

“I’ve seen enough.”

Worf nodded impassively, but he scrambled out the portal somewhat faster than he had entered.

Picard ducked his head as he edged through the breach, then froze in place.

“Captain? Is something wrong?”

“Yes, Lieutenant, although I suppose it hardly matters now.”

The signs were so clear; surely T’Sara had seen them, too? Picard reached out one hand, trailing his fingers over the crumbling bricks and mortar, wondering what fierce emotion had driven the hands that had built this wall.

“This chamber was sealed from the inside.”

CHAPTER 6

Embedded discreetly along the outer shell of Starbase 193 were a series of subspace signal collectors, a small part of the vast communications network that linked one end of the Federation to another. These electronic scoops gathered up decaying transmissions from passing freighters or from settlements uneasily perched on the fringe of Federation territory, then computers sorted the compressed digital packets and directed them to the appropriate transmitter along the upper rim of the station. The newly fortified signals were flung back into the void toward their destination or to yet another of the relay boosters seeded throughout Federation territory.

The process was automatic, so the communications packet from the Enterprise passed through the system in a matter of seconds. It would have taken even less time, except Captain Picard’s mission report had to be detached from the compressed bundle before the remaining portion of the transmission was sent on its way to Vulcan.

Suffering yet another half-second lag, the captain’s report was routed through a short system subroutine. Following the program’s instructions, the computer created a duplicate of the transmission and shuttled this copy to an untitled buffer file. The original proceeded to Commander Miyakawa’s message terminal.

Minutes later, a technician in the communications center accessed the duplicate and perused its contents. After the first quick reading, a nervous tic began to tug one corner of his mouth askew. He read the message a second time.

This breach of security procedures would have been more difficult to implement on a starbase fully staffed by Starfleet officers, but Thomas Grede often worked unsupervised, so the subroutine had been relatively easy to install. None of the other operators knew the system well enough to discover the alteration, and few would have cared.

He was depending on this same apathy when he slipped away from his post in the middle of a shift.

No one noticed his departure, but then no one noticed Grede much of the time anyway. He was a slight, timid man who had grown accustomed to being overlooked by the people around him. Competent and reliable, his only weakness was a hunger for attention, yet this craving had persisted unfulfilled for most of his life.

On Starbase 193, one person had seen his need and used it to her advantage.

As a matter of routine, any new employee hired by the base commander was soon tempted to provide certain business interests on the station with private services. Grede had stood firm against repeated bribes, and over several years of steady if unspectacular performance, he had earned a high security clearance. During this time, however, Camenae had patiently cultivated his friendship with a few kind words and the occasional free drink at the Due or Die. This mild flattery was all it took to buy his loyalty.

Grede grew anxious to please her. Without any prompting, one day he came to her with the gift of a coded communiqu`e to Commander Miyakawa that he had skillfully intercepted. Camenae had paid him for the betrayal, but it was her smile of appreciation that thrilled him. Unfortunately, her gratitude did not last very long, and soon her manner toward him grew cool and distant.

Desperate to regain her favor, the technician realized that the only way he could maintain his good standing was with a constant stream of tribute.

Today, as he scurried through the doors of the Due or Die, Grede belatedly admitted that the price of pleasing Camenae was climbing higher than he could afford.

“I have information.” These were the magic words that had first fulfilled his desire to impress the knowledge-broker. These three words persuaded the Norsican guard to move aside and allow Grede access to the inner sanctum.

He knew the way into Camenae’s shadowed office by heart, but he stumbled over the threshold anyway, his feet tangled by haste and a fear so strong it weakened his knees. She waved him to a chair, but he continued to stand, bouncing on the balls of his feet, ready to sprint away again.

“I’ve just seen the latest report to Miyakawa from the Enterprise,” he said, still panting from his run to the bar. “Camenae, the Vulcans on Atropos are dead!”

“So the Enterprise is handling this matter.

That’s definitely information I can use.” She reached into the folds of her robe and withdrew a token.

“No,” cried Grede, his voice rising in pitch. “I didn’t come here to sell you something.

Camenae, this situation is getting out of hand.

We’re talking the death of prominent Federation citizens. That means an investigation, questions, officials prying into every corner of this starbase.”

She shrugged. “I’m not responsible if you failed to consider the consequences of our last transaction.”

“Dammit, I could get into serious trouble for what I’ve done!”

“In that case,” she said, palming the coin he had rejected, “I’ll put this on your account.

You may have need of it in the future.”

He searched her face for some sign of compassion. The corners of her mouth were turned down, but not out of concern for his misfortune.

Camenae was merely impatient for him to leave.

Sendei shut his eyes.

After a century of practice, this simple act should have slipped him easily into meditation, but today that skill eluded him. The Vulcan struggled to submerge himself and failed. He could still hear the muffled exchanges between students and professors in the hall outside, and the outlines of his office remained clearly visible in his mind.

He took a deep breath. Then, like a child just learning the first steps of emotional control, he summoned the construct of two hands and imagined them cupped over each of his ears.

When all sounds had faded, Sendei passed the hands in front of his face, and his awareness of the room in which he sat receded as well. The removal of these distractions released other thoughts that were not so easily blocked.

He was haunted by memories of the dead.

Over ten years had passed since he had found T’Sara standing on the crest of a moonlit dune, gazing out across the plains to the blackened silhouette of Mount Selaya. Sendei had argued with her for hours, nearly until dawn, but logic could not deter T’Sara from selling her estate to continue her search for the Ko N’ya. He had stormed away when his emotional reserve finally shattered against her obstinacy. By the time he had recovered his composure, she had left Vulcan.

He never saw her again.

T’Sara had no close family, and the distant branches of her clan had severed all contact after she ceded her ancestral lands. As of this moment, Sendei claimed her as his own kin. He would write her name in his family’s annals so that his children’s children would revere her memory.

Her image faded and he was alone in the desert.

Dipping his hands into the dune, Sendei filled cupped palms with sand, then focused his attention on the grains as they streamed from between his fingers. This second construct helped him descend to another level of the meditative state.

He did not see Sohle’s face, but he remembered the gruffness of the man’s voice. Although Sohle had never professed belief in T’Sara’s quest, he had been the first archaeologist at the Academy to announce his decision to accompany her to Atropos, and he had met the storm of criticism leveled against his participation with a short answer. “I will learn more from her folly than from the wisdom of my colleagues.”

Other professors and students had been persuaded by these words, so T’Sara did not leave Vulcan alone.

Now Sendei would have to inform Sohle’s children that their father was dead, just as Tessin’s brothers must be told that their only sister would not return home.

Skorret would never finish his dissertation on pre-Reform metalwork, and the Academy had lost forever T’Challo’s insights into early Vulcan art forms.

So many names lost … so many lives disrupted … so many families wounded by this tragedy.

Drifting grains of sand could not shore up his crumbling emotional defenses. Sendei loosed a thundering earthquake across the desert. The ground trembled and shook until a jagged fissure opened beneath his feet. He dropped down into total darkness, into the very center of his despair.

Sorren is dead. My son is dead.

Sendei’s reaction was Vulcan, silent but deeply felt. Offworlders often mistook that lack of outward show for indifference, but the pain of such a loss was not meant for display. Few Vulcans managed to extinguish all emotion, but most had mastered the ability to contain it. According to the philosophy that the Vulcan race had adopted, there was no reason why any emotion, no matter how intense, should influence behavior or cloud the path of logic.

Deep in meditation, Sendei searched for a final construct that would contain his unruly emotions. He chose the image of a river rushing through an underground chasm. Here his rage and grief could run freely and purely in their own channel until death brought him inner peace.

CHAPTER 7

“There is no Bendii’s!”

Beverly Crusher had charged through the doors of the captain’s ready room after only a token ring of the chime. She was brandishing her medical padd like the head of a vanquished enemy.

Picard lowered the teacup that had been on its way to his lips and waved the CMO to a chair in front of his desk. “I take it your medical report is ready.”

“Yes, by god, it is.” She moved into place with the grace of a dancer, the tails of her lab coat billowing out behind her. “Tissue cultures from T’Sara’s metathalamus were negative for Bendii’s syndrome. In fact, during the autopsy I found no signs of any kind of pathology in her brain or nervous system no lesions, no tumors, nothing organic that could result in violent or irrational behavior.”

“Then what could have triggered such violence among the Vulcans?”

“Oh, but I’m not convinced of that either,” said Crusher. Heightened spots of color on her cheeks betrayed her excitement. “I may be rusty on the finer points of forensic medicine, but it appears that several of the Vulcans were stunned before they were killed, and almost all of the bodies show obvious signs of having been moved after death.”

She jabbed at her padd screen, consulted the new readout, then continued. “For instance, Soth was found lying facedown in the plaza, but blood had pooled on the back of his body; T’Challo’s arms had small scrapes and bruises that occurred after death, and three of Sohle’s fingers were broken after rigor mortis had set in, apparently to force his hand around a phaser grip.”

Picard already had a notion of where this discussion was leading, but he sipped his tea as Beverly continued to develop her argument.

“Not to mention that Tessin’s fingerprints were found on the weapon that killed Skorret, even though the rate of cellular degeneration suggests she died at least a half hour before he did.” Tossing the data padd onto the captain’s desk like a gauntlet thrown down in challenge, Crusher said, “Frankly, I find it highly unlikely that a group of homicidal Vulcans would concern themselves with moving their victims from one place to another; a far more likely explanation of the entire situation is—” “—is that off-planet intruders staged a clumsy cover for the murders.”

“Exactly!”

The new scenario unfolded before his mind’s eye T’Sara caught unawares, falling under the unexpected barrage of phaser fire, victim of an attack from without rather than from within. Although the forms that wielded the weapons were shadowy and undefined, their existence had the solidity of truth.

“I concur with your interpretation of the evidence,” said Picard. “The question remains, who would do this and why?”

She shrugged. “Sorry, Captain, that’s not my department.”

“No,” he sighed. “But it is mine.” The answers to T’Sara’s death danced just out of reach, elusive, tantalizing. What would it take to bring them into focus?

He tapped the communicator on his chest.

“Picard to Data What is the status of your current project?”

“I have not yet concluded my investigation, but there is sufficient progress to warrant your attention.”

“Thank you, Data. I’m on my way to the bridge.” The captain rose from behind his desk.

“Doctor, I think you should hear this, too.”

Riker’s steps echoed loudly as he crossed the deck of Cargo Bay 12. The loading crew was gone, as was the fleet of airsleds they had driven into the spacious hold. After a brief frenzy of activity, Worf’s team had left behind a tidy mountain of faceted shipping cartons.

Each carton had a number stenciled on its surface, and as Riker entered that number into his data padd, the tablet’s display screen revealed the contents stored inside. The first series included tents, computers, dating scanners, thermal sensors, laser drills, and sonic picks. Every last stake and stray piece of rope had been gathered up and packed away.

Next, Riker checked through the artifacts uncovered by the excavations shards of pottery and statuary, broken weapons, small pieces of jewelry. These were the discarded remnants of a society, not its treasures. According to the captain, it was from precisely this sort of detritus that most archaeologists teased their understanding of a culture, and T’Sara had displayed a genius for making these extrapolations.

The last two cartons were filled with items found in the archaeologists’ living quarters.

Vulcans were not a materialistic race, so the list Riker scanned was spare and consisted mostly of clothes and books. Even after their long tenure on the planet, the scientists had made no attempt to decorate their tents with frivolous trinkets; every personal article was utilitarian in purpose and discreetly labeled with the owner’s name.

Upon a second glance, however, the first officer noticed that every member of the team possessed a pocket holo. So, at the end of a long day of excavation and research, even Vulcans wanted reminders of home and family.

Three of them had brought musical instruments as well. Riker envisioned a small group of tired men and women gathered together under the stars, listening to the soft strains of a lyre and a flute. The scene made the knowledge of their deaths more poignant, almost painful, but it helped to overshadow his memories of contorted bodies mired in blood.

With a final tap on the padd’s controls, Riker transferred the confirmed manifest into the starship’s main computers. Nothing of the Vulcans remained below on Atropos. Their decade-long presence had been completely erased.

“Sorren’s distress call appears to have been altered in several ways,” said Data. “The first modification was to the identification slate.”

Picard automatically leaned closer to the science station, then shifted slightly to allow Crusher an unobstructed view of the screen. The circular seal of the United Federation of Planets—a field of stars flanked by olive branches—floated on a blue background; below the logo was a small block of text.

The two officers studied the slate and its standard display of information about Sorren’s message.

Origin UFP 567045-B12-10A (atropos) Destination UFP 567045-B23-22C (starbase 193) Stardate 45873.4

“I see nothing out of the ordinary,” said Picard as he exchanged puzzled looks with the doctor.

“At first, neither did I,” said the android.

“However, when I examined the transmission envelope I discovered a discrepancy in the date stamp. Since the envelope is usually accessed only by the transceiver hardware, its information is never visible to the recipient of the message.”

With quick, practiced movements, Data unzipped the coded interface and called forth a dense stream of unformatted data. Numbers flew by more quickly than Picard could follow until suddenly Data froze the image. His pointing finger highlighted the pertinent section of a line.

FMCCUFP567045-B12-10Ast-TOCCUFP567045-B23-22C/SD-45873.3 “45873.3,” read Picard. “One day earlier!”

“Correct,” said the android. “The last digit designating the day has been changed on the identification slate. That alteration obscured a twenty-four-hour lag between the receipt of the original message at Starbase 193 and the transmission of a forged version to the Enterprise.”

“And during that time,” said Crusher angrily, “the Vulcans were being slaughtered.”

“That would appear to be the case.”

The screen image shimmered as Data advanced the recording to the middle of Sorren’s communiqu`e. Black and white lines lightly scored the Vulcan’s face, then increased in intensity, fracturing the picture beyond recognition.

Data continued his explanation. “The second modification involves the sudden appearance of static that obscures part of the message. Any transmission interference should have been noted by the subspace receiver; however, the data verification field indicates that the Vulcan’s message was received intact at Starbase 193. Neither is there any record of difficulty in the transmission from the starbase to the Enterprise. Thus, I surmised that the burst of Hovorka radiation is actually a graphic forgery introduced to suppress five seconds of the image.”

“Can the original be restored?” asked Picard.

“Yes, I believe so. The transmission envelope contains a compressed digital duplicate of lower resolution, but this copy contains sufficient information for our purposes.

By judicious cross-referencing and multiple digital sampling I can reconstruct the missing segment.”

“Make it so.”

A high whine ensued as the android ran the message at high speed; his fingers blurred with equal rapidity over the console as he adjusted controls, then repeated the process again and again.

With each repetition the tape image became clearer. “This should be sufficient for comprehension.”

Sorren’s movements slowed to real time, and his voice dropped back to a deep pitch.

Despite a slight blurring of image and sound, his words were intelligible.

“Her behavior is growing increasingly erratic she is prone to outbursts of emotion and persists in irrational accounts of her communion with the Ko N’ya.”

“The Ko N’ya again,” exclaimed Crusher.

Picard’s thoughts flashed to the memory of two gnarled hands, the hands of an alien who had walled itself up alive. What had those cupped palms been holding when T’Sara entered the chamber?

“After all these years of searching,” he wondered aloud, “could she really have found it?”

Troi stirred in her cabin bed, her legs thrashing beneath the sheets until she kicked off her covers entirely. The loss of warmth and a nagging agitation prodded her up through the layers of unconsc iousness.

Her eyes fluttered open for only a second. Fighting against the impulse to wake, she buried her face back into a pillow. This nap was no luxury. The last few days had been filled with emergency sessions that had pulled the counselor out of her cabin in the middle of the night. That was often the case after Away Team missions that involved violent death, and this time several members of the paramedic team had been plagued with nightmares.

Of their own accord, Troi’s feet twitched as if she were pacing back and forth across a deck.

Of course. Imzadi.

Belatedly, the empath realized what was happening. Commander Will Riker was striding through the Enterprise with a heightened vigor and intensity of purpose, and she was unwittingly keeping him company. His forceful emotions often overrode her mental block, like rising floodwaters spilling over the edge of a dam. Stronger defenses would prevent these intrusions, but the effort would require a constant mental strain, and it would also mute the comforting knowledge of his presence.

Having identified the source of her unease, Troi damped down her emotional link with the first officer until the muscles in her legs relaxed. Then she groped for her covers and sighed contentedly at the prospect of falling back asleep.

She drifted lazily into unconsciousness.

“Data to Counselor Troi.”

Troi’s eyes flew open. “Yes, Data?”

“The captain has called an emergency conference for all senior officers.”

Stifling a groan of exasperation, the counselor said, “I’m on my way.”

According to the engineering schematics on file at the Utopia Planitia Fleet Yards, Ten-Forward was merely a spacious room designated as a crew lounge. All galaxy-class starships had a Ten-Forward with its standard-issue bar and curving transparent aluminum windows, but only the USS Enterprise had Guinan, which made this particular Ten-Forward uncommonly special.

Riker welcomed that difference when he pushed his way through the familiar double doors. Ever since his visit to the cargo bay, the first officer had been plagued by a vague restlessness, but now the urge to keep moving faded. No one rushed to leave Guinan’s company.

Her shapeless robes and fanciful headgear were flamboyant; Guinan herself was contained. She listened more often than she spoke, yet when she had something to say, the mellow tones of her husky voice were compelling.

“You look like a man in need of a little excitement,” said the hostess, setting a tall thin glass of a fizzing liquid on the counter.

Riker had never seen a drink quite like it before, but then Guinan had a fondness for experimentation.

“Is it that obvious?” sighed the first officer as he swung onto a bar stool. “We’ve only been in orbit around Atropos for two days, but I’m ready to leave again.”

“Odds are against it,” came a mocking voice from behind him.

Riker took a deep breath, then turned to present a forced smile to the angular Bajoran woman who slid into place next to him. Never turn your back on Ro Laren. “What’s that supposed to mean, Ensign?”

“Just that the ship’s pool is running two to one that we won’t make it to Luxor IV in time for a game of canasta, much less poker. Of course, the crew of the Telarius would probably win the championship again anyway.”

“O ye of little faith.” She was baiting him, and he knew it, but Riker still couldn’t stop himself.

“As it happens, our business here is almost finished, and a steady warp seven will get us back on schedule. Then the crew of the Enterprise is going to show the crew of the Telarius how real poker should be played.”

“Don’t waste your bluffs on me, sir,” said Ro with an incredibly infuriating and condescending chuckle. “Save them for the championship match … sometime next year.”

“I’m not bluffing.”

“A hundred says you are.”

“You’re on,” he snapped. “Guinan, you heard her.”

“I heard both of you,” said Guinan softly.

“In fact, everyone in the room heard both of you. Now will you taste that drink I poured for you? The flavor is very delicate, and it won’t last much longer.”

Riker reached his hand out for the glass.

“Data to Commander Riker.”

His hand moved up to his comm insignia instead.

“Riker here.”

“The captain has called an emergency conference for all senior officers.”

“Understood, Mr. Data,” said the first officer as he pushed away from the bar. “I’m on my way.”

“A hundred credits will come in very handy on my next shore leave.” The Bajoran was openly smirking.

To add insult to injury, Guinan slid his untouched drink over to the ensign. The bartender shrugged an apology to Riker, then turned back to watch Ro’s reaction to the beverage.

Heading out of Ten-Forward, Riker grudgingly admitted there was a high probability that Ro would win their bet. Unfortunately, the loss of a hundred credits would not hurt half so much as the loss of his pride.

Each of the chairs around the oval conference table would be filled soon, but for the next few minutes Picard and Crusher had the observation lounge to themselves. After the turmoil of the last few days, the captain welcomed this oasis of tranquillity.

Usually he would have resented sharing it with anyone else, except Beverly was not just anyone else.

“So,” asked the doctor, “when did you develop this fascination for the Ko N’ya?”

“As a child,” said Picard. “My brother was the one who introduced me to the legend. Although, since Robert was a bit of a bully, his aim was to terrify little Jean-Luc.”

“Did he succeed?”

“Oh, yes.” Even after fifty years, Picard could recall trembling in their night-darkened bedroom and burrowing under his blankets as if they were armor against monsters.

“Robert would wait until our parents were asleep and the house was completely still, then he would whisper yet another impressively embellished tale of blood and gore. He developed quite a flair for the dramatic and considered himself amply rewarded if he reduced me to tears.”

“How charming,” said Crusher wryly, but then she was the mother of an only child. Picard could never explain to her the complex web of love and hate that bound him to his brother.

“However, as I grew older, my fear turned to fascination, and I would beg Robert for more stories.”

“Let me guess,” she said with a smile.

“At that point, Robert lost interest in the Ko N’ya.”

“Exactly.” Perhaps she understood the relationship between brothers after all. “So I began to read the original lore for myself, and when those books were exhausted, I moved on to others. That was the start of my lifelong passion for history and archaeology of all kinds.”

“Jean-Luc, do you really believe T’Sara could have found this object? Has myth turned out to be history after all?”

“I hardly dare believe it.” Yet he still could not shake the image of those mummified hands.

“Touching the Ko N’ya would be like touching history itself. For such an opportunity, I would …”

Picard groped for the limits of his desire but found them surprisingly difficult to define.

“Sell your soul?” said Crusher.

Her suggestion had been made in jest, so Picard answered in the same lighthearted vein.

“No, not sell … but perhaps rent it for a while.”

Once the words were uttered, however, he realized they were uncomfortably close to the truth.

CHAPTER 8

“There have been some new insights into the murders of the Vulcans on Atropos,” announced Picard. Then, with a nod, he signaled Beverly Crusher to recite the results of her autopsy findings.

As the assembled officers listened first to the doctor and then to Data, Picard watched the crew’s changing expressions. The revelation of each new facet of the deception on Atropos tightened the line of Riker’s jaw and deepened the sorrow in Troi’s eyes; Geordi La Forge grew still and silent, whereas Worf shifted in his chair as if ready to lunge at an approaching enemy.

When the reports were finished, a circle of grim faces turned toward the captain.

“Given the circumstances,” said Picard, “we must proceed under the assumption that all our communications with Starbase 193 are being monitored. I’ve prepared a report of our investigations for Admiral Matasu at Starbase 75, but it will take hours for him to even receive the message.”

“Which means we’re on our own for now,” said Riker, with an emphatic tug at his tunic.

The gesture, one he unconsciously borrowed from the captain, was a mixture of defiance and anticipation.

Picard was more ambivalent about this prospect than his first officer. One of the most invigorating challenges of command lay in making decisions that were his alone, but autonomy from Starfleet authority was accompanied by an equal measure of responsibility for the consequences of his judgment.

Nonetheless, he had already reached one firm resolution.

“Our first priority is to locate the intruders that we believe murdered the Vulcan archaeologists.”

“Agreed,” said Crusher. “Any delay in pursuit would give them more time to get away.” A supporting chorus of murmured assent quickly rippled around the table.

“There’s one thing I just don’t understand,” said La Forge. “Why would anyone be willing to kill for some dusty old relic?”

Picard smiled at the engineer’s naive description. “Oh, but it’s not just any artifact. This is a mythic icon of tremendous allure. Ko N’ya, the Devil’s Heart … it has been called many names in many languages throughout the galaxy.”

Data cocked his head, silently accessing information from a vast storehouse of knowledge. “The Belnarri call it Nota; the Andorians know it as Telev’s Bane; and to the Klingons it is the Pagrashtak.”

“Pagrashtak!” exclaimed Worf.

“The Bloodstone!”

Picard was startled by the intensity of the Klingo n’s reaction.

“So you know about this, too?” asked Troi.

Picard could practically hear her clinical persona click into place. Evidently the counselor sensed considerable depth in the lieutenant’s agitation.

“Yes, I have heard of it,” said Worf reluctantly. The captain wondered if his scowl was a product of embarrassment at the outburst or whether the warrior’s reserve was still shaken by mention of the Pagrashtak. “According to Klingon legend, Lord Kessec founded the First Empire with its powers … and Kessec warned that he who holds the Pagrashtak must drain his veins of blood or his next of kin will do it for him.”

Riker rocked back in his chair, startled by the severity of Worf’s expression. The first officer’s eyebrows knitted together in genuine puzzlement. “So what exactly is this thing?”

Where to even begin? wondered Picard as he struggled to condense the work of T’Sara’s lifetime into a few words. “The Heart’s exact nature is unknown, and its origins are lost in antiquity; all that survives are tales of its passage through different cultures. In the mythologies T’Sara collected, the Heart has been variously described as a stone, a jewel, even an energy cell. One hypothesis is that the Heart is an artifact of some ancient and forgotten race, one highly advanced in science.” His brother Robert’s voice whispered another explanation in his ear. “But worlds which believe in magic consider it to be a powerful talisman of Darkness.”

“A talisman of darkness?” snorted Riker. “With the power to do just what?”

Data was ready with the answer. “No one knows its true capabilities, but they are suspected to be vast, enabling its possessor to control men’s minds, to amass wealth and power, even to change the flow of time itself.”

“Data, you don’t really believe that?”

“Our belief is not really relevant,” countered Troi. “T’Sara believed, and whoever killed the Vulcan archaeologists must also have believed. Regardless of whether this Devil’s Heart has any real powers, people have killed to gain possession of it.”

“Devil’s Heart, Bloodstone,” said Riker. “I begin to see why it has such morbid names.”

“Yes,” said Picard. “According to many of the legends T’Sara gathered, the price of gaining the stone is death or the spilling of blood. Those who have ruled by its powers have died in combat or been betrayed by their friends.”

Troi suddenly switched her scrutiny from Worf to Picard. “Captain, what do you believe—” “Bridge to Captain Picard.” A voice brusque with controlled urgency drowned out the counselor’s question. “We’re picking up an automated distress call from a Ferengi vessel in this sector.”

“I’m on my way,” said Picard, already rising from his chair.

Riker was on his feet a half second later. “I have a bad feeling about this, Captain.”

“Yes, Number One, it does appear this sector is becoming rather crowded.”

The Ferengi Marauder-class starship floated in space, drifting listlessly; its crescent-shaped rear hull was pitted and scored, and a gash in the horned front section was charred down to the duranium frame. Lights were scattered at random through the decks, but they flickered weakly.

Picard surveyed the damaged vessel with a dispassionate eye and a suspicious nature.

“Raise shields.”

“They don’t look ready for another fight,” said Riker.

“Perhaps not,” conceded the captain. After all, even Ferengi guile had its limits. “But we have yet to account for whoever attacked—” The deck rocked beneath his command chair as the ship’s deflector shields sparked and crackled. Alert sirens blared, and bridge lights dimmed momentarily as power was rechanneled to the defense systems. A less-seasoned officer might have mistaken the impact for a weapons salvo, but Picard recognized the telltale blue flash of Cerenkov radiation that resulted from a mid-flight collision.

“Helm! Go to quarter-impulse.”

As the Enterprise’s forward motion slowed, the force of subsequent collisions was diminished to the light patter of hail on a rooftop.

“Power reserves holding steady,” said Data as sensor chatter echoed noisily across the navigation consoles.

“A trap?” asked Riker.

“I don’t think so, Number One.” Picard studied the view of the space surrounding them and confirmed what he had expected the Enterprise had plowed into the middle of a field of debris.

Chunks of dark, twisted metal were scattered in all directions, their serrated edges glinting in starlight. “I suspect we’ve found the second player in this drama.”

Flashes of blue light danced across the viewscreen as more of the fragments ricocheted off the protective envelope of the deflector shields.

“My analysis of the particles supports that theory,” said Data. “The total mass of the debris appears equivalent to that of another vessel, although one somewhat less formidable than the Marauder class.”

“Any speculation as to its origins?”

“That may be difficult to determine since the wreckage has been distorted by intense heat.”

The android magnified several different sections of the viewscreen until he located a twisted beam that still retained identifiable form. “This molded tritanium truss is characteristic of the Orion Signet series.”

“An Orion ship?” Riker turned to Picard. “They usually give wide berth to the Ferengi.”

“Yet this time it seems two scavengers have fallen on each other.”

“To the detriment of both,” said Data. “I detect no life-signs aboard the Ferengi vessel.”

“And the blood is still flowing,” murmured Picard.

Riker frowned at the repetition of T’Sara’s dying words. “So you think this battle is related to the attack on the Vulcans?”

Worf’s deep voice thundered down from the tactical station on the aft deck. “One can find the Pagrashtak by following the flight of carrion-eaters; keeping it is not so easy.” The Klingon leaned over the rail and added a more subdued explanation. “That was a quote from The Ballads of Durall.”

Riker was struck speechless by the unexpected declamation, but Picard’s composure was still intact. “Thank you, Lieutenant.” He agreed with Worf the mythic quality of this quest seemed to invite the heightened language of ancient texts.

“Well,” said the first officer, “if the Orions had T’Sara’s relic when their ship was destroyed, we’ll be sifting through space detritus for weeks. So I suggest we search the Ferengi Marauder first.”

“Agreed, Number One. Prepare an Away Team for …”

Touching the Ko N’ya would be like touching history itself.

“No,” said Picard suddenly. “Belay that order.”

“Sir?”

“Indulge me, W. I’d like to lead this mission.” The temptation was simply too strong for Picard to resist, but he would prefer to persuade Riker into agreement. A confrontation over this issue would only waste time and delay the recovery effort. “You know that I’ve been fascinated by the legend of the Heart for most of my life, and if it should actually exist …”

To his relief, Riker gave way with a broad grin. “Understood, Captain. Just don’t make a habit of doing my job.”

He was already out of his chair. “Worf, Data, with me.”

With each step up the bridge ramp, Picard felt like he was marching his way into one of Robert’s epic tales of heroic adventure. His two Away Team companions followed on his heels into the turbolift, obedient knights sworn to attend their liege lord.

By the time the three of them reached Deck 6 and mounted the transporter dais, Picard had banished the fantasy image from his mind. He was a Starfleet captain on a mission. Of all the dreams he had held as a child, this one was the most powerful.

“Ready for transport, Mr. O’Brien.”

“Aye, Captain.” The chief checked his console settings. “I’ll set you down in the main bridge.”

The transporter chamber glittered away. Then, in the space of a heartbeat, new surroundings materialized around Picard.

He coughed reflexively as swirling smoke entered his lungs. The air was cold, a sign that life support systems were failing.

At a glance, Picard could see that the command center of the Marauder was smaller than the main bridge of a starship. Everything in its interior, from the decks and walls to the computer consoles, was painted a muted gray. Everything was also broken.

Shattered ceiling panels dangled from overhead, spilling out streams of wire; the deck was tilted and walls were buckled; and several cracked equipment consoles squealed softly as if in pain.

Scattered throughout this wreckage were a half-dozen bodies of the Ferengi crew.

Despite his sense of urgency, Picard realized that the task ahead of them was rather daunting.

If the Heart really was here in the midst of all this rubble, how could he find it? Would he even know it when he saw it?

“Confirmed,” Data said after a sweep of the tricorder. “There are no life-signs.”

At a nod from the captain, Worf and the android moved forward, picking their way through the rubble.

Picard chose a third path, but he had taken only a few steps when his boot heel caught on a loose deck plate, throwing him off-balance. He reached a hand out to the nearest console to steady himself, but a humming sound warned him not to touch the surface. He quickly shifted his weight and recovered his footing.

“The Signet’s plasma bolts seem to have fused the electrical system,” explained Data.

“And electrocuted the crew,” said Worf, warily prodding aside one of the dead crewmen who lay slumped over the helm.

“Are we in any danger?” asked Picard as he stepped over a loosely coiled conduit.

“The initial charge has dissipated,” said Data. “However, the short circuits in the system are capable of delivering a shock that would prove uncomfortable to the Human body.”

“Thank you, Data. I’ll keep that in mind. ” His breath was frosting now as the ship’s heat continued to leach into space.

Picard continued his inspection while keeping a healthy distance from any sparking equipment panels. He scuffed the toe of one boot kicking aside loose rubble and snagged his uniform jacket on the sharp corners of twisted metal; his back began to ache as he contorted his body to peer into dark corners. From the crashing sounds off to his left, the captain could tell that Worf’s search technique was even more vigorous.

It occurred to Picard that he might not be the first one to find the Heart.

“Captain,” called out Data. “Is this what you are seeking?”

Casting aside all caution, Picard pushed his way through the wreckage to the front of the bridge.

He found the android kneeling by the corpse of a Ferengi DaiMon. Either the electric current had contorted his face into a rictus of ecstasy, or he had been killed in the throes of rapture.

In his hands he clutched a dull, rough rock.

“The Heart,” whispered Picard. “It must be.”

Data carefully pried the object out of the DaiMon’s grip and proffered it up to the captain.

Picard could feel his pulse racing as the weight of the stone settled into his palms.

It was warm.

CHAPTER 9

“Captain’s Log, Stardate 45873.6 The Enterprise broke orbit from Atropos to respond to an automated distress call from a Ferengi vessel …”

Picard had aged well, decided Miyakawa as she reviewed the captain’s mission report.

As a young cadet, his prominent nose and forehead had overpowered his face, but in his middle years these same strong features were compelling.

“… encountered a Marauder-class starship …”

Cadets Picard, Crusher, and Keel had moved in tandem through Starfleet Academy, and the common expectation among their classmates had been that each member of the trio would garner early commissions and eventually end up back at the Academy teaching a new generation of cadets.

Life had worked out a bit differently for them; Jean-Luc was the only one of the three left alive.

But then I’m not where I thought I’d be either.

“… all crew aboard the vessel were dead.

I’ll provide more details when they’re available.”

To Miyakawa’s surprise, Picard’s narrative came to an abrupt end at that point.

“Wait a minute! Dead of what?” she demanded of the blank screen on her desk viewer.

Picard had omitted a wealth of vital information from his log coordinates for the Marauder, the basis for its distress call, even the next destination of the Enterprise.

“Dammit, that wasn’t a report,” muttered the commander as she rocketed out of her chair. “I know a stall when I see one.” She also knew where she might find some answers to her questions.

Unhooking her uniform jacket from the wall, Miyakawa stormed out of her office and headed for the far end of the starbase.

“How dare you call in this debt!”

Anlew-Is slammed a chit down on the table and continued to pound his fist at regular intervals while he screamed in Camenae’s face.

“I’ve lost a Signet-class vessel, not to mention five of my best-trained mercenaries, and you expect payment for my ruin? You should pay me for the damages I’ve incurred in this odious venture!”

Camenae leaned back in her chair, trying hard not to breathe too deeply. She wondered whether it was the olive-green skin or the black fibrous hair that gave Orions their penetrating odor.

“You paid for the information, Anlew-Is, not for a favorable outcome to your schemes. If you want insurance, go do business with Aghlarren the Mote.”

“But you sold me out to the Ferengi consortium!

I would have the Heart in my hands if not for your greed and treachery!”

“Don’t blame me for either your shortsightedness or your miserly nature,” said Camenae with a stern frown. “You know my policies and my prices, yet you consistently refuse to cover the cost of exclusivity. DaiMon Maarc knew the value of a long-term investment.”

“Ha!” he said, bathing her face with a blast of fetid air. “Dead men make no profit.”

Camenae sighed, her only concession to the truth of that statement. There was little use in denying the DaiMon’s death; the remaining members of the consortium were still seated at the bar of the Due or Die, all loudly wailing and keening over the imminent collapse of their fortunes. True, DaiMon Bruk had been sent out on the obligatory salvage mission, but the presence of a Federation starship in the sector had shaken their faith in any recovery effort. Camenae suspected their pessimism was well-founded.

The thump of a green fist shook the table again.

“I’m made of sterner stuff than mewling Ferengi merchants I won’t pay the balance!”

“Very well.”

“What?” His arm stopped in midair, aborting yet another assault on the furniture.

“In accordance with my policy concerning delinquent accounts, I will be forced to liquidate certain information about your organization that I have kept out of general inventory. The sale of that information will be applied to your outstanding debt.”

“That’s blackmail, Camenae!”

“I call it a sound business procedure.”

“Damn you!” His fist slammed down yet again, but this time he left a token in the wake of the hammer blow. “You’ll get another next month and not a day before.”

He turned and stomped his way across the deck with a deafening clatter.

“Anlew-Is,” she called out. “Do you wish to be kept informed of the Heart’s location?”

“No,” he screamed from the doorway. “The Heart can go to blazes for all I care!”

The Ferengi had given much the same answer an hour before, although the whole troupe of them did not generate half the commotion made by one Orion black marketeer.

In the blessed silence that had been restored to her chamber, Camenae considered the selection of her next customer.

When Anlew-Is erupted out of the bar’s back room, Miyakawa leaned farther back into the shadowed recesses of her booth. Her caution was hardly necessary since the Orion was far too preoccupied with broadcasting his indignation to pay any attention to his audience. As she listened to his loud ranting, and to the background chorus of the doleful Ferengi, the commander gleaned enough details to reconstruct their recent activity in the sector.

Anlew-Is was still fuming when her eyes tracked a robed figure gliding across the bar and into Camenae’s office. Reyjad@an was a permanent resident of the base, so Miyakawa knew his name and his homeworld, but the details of his personal life were a mystery. The DiWahn was an alien who kept to himself, rarely appearing in public. However, if he was one of Camenae’s customers, it might be prudent to learn more of his background.

The glass in Miyakawa’s hands was empty, but the commander feigned a sip of her drink so the waiter would leave her alone. Like a hunter tucked in a blind, she was in the mood to remain undetected and wait for more game to pass by.

The creature was swathed in cloth from head to toe, although Camenae was not entirely sure the figure hidden beneath the heavy robes possessed either of those features. Its voice issued forth from the folds of a drooping hood, and it spoke as if an oily, serpentine tongue formed its words.

“I am Lord Reyjad@an. Your servant outside referred to me as “the DiWahn.” You are both in need of correction. I am unDiWahn one who is from, yet not of, that world.

My people’s origins are of greater eminence than that rough planet could ever generate.”

“Thank you for that clarification.” Camenae automatically filed away this free fact, although its value was dubious. “I have information you seek.”

“The Dream Gem!” it said with a dry rattle of alarm. “What you call the Heart—the rumors of its discovery are true?”

“Yes. It has been found.”

“Why was I not informed of this earlier?” hissed the cowl. “I stated my interest in the Gem ten years ago when I first arrived on this starbase.”

“I noted your demand at that time,” said Camenae with a dryness that was lost on the alien.

“But I have other customers who make greater use of my—” “Kei! I do not involve myself with gossip or deal in issues of petty trade. My only concern is with the Gem. Where is it?”

“The answer to that question will cost—” “Such insolence,” said the alien. “You cannot put a price on my birthright.”

“I can, and do, put a price on everything that is said in this room, Lord Reyjad@an.” After adding an extra ten percent exasperation tax to her previously decided on figure, Camenae firmly stated the cost of the proposed transaction. “Take it or leave it.

I have other customers who would—” “Spare me your tiresome haggling tactics.

I will pay the sum in full.” A jangling sound came from inside the voluminous sleeves, and a necklace crafted of refined dilithium crystals spilled out onto the table.

Camenae shook her head. “I only accept—” “But I expect full service from you,” said the alien. “There will be an additional requirement for the fulfillment of my quest, and I expect it to be provided without additional charge.”

“Oh, very well,” she said, impatient to end the transaction. After all, Aghlarren the Mote would offer a fair price for the crystals. “What is the additional service you require?”

To Camenae’s intense regret, the demand he outlined was reasonable and easily arranged.

Half an hour after Reyjad@an’s departure, Commander Miyakawa had just about decided to put an end to her afternoon of hiding in the shadows of the Due or Die when Thomas Grede skulked into the bar and sidled through to the back room.

She settled back into her seat and ordered another drink.

Base personnel were not prohibited from frequenting the Due or Die since such a regulation would have been impossible for her to enforce, but the technician’s familiarity with the Norsican guard betrayed more than a casual acquaintance with the staff. The knowledge that Grede merited a solo audience with Camenae was even more intriguing.

I’m just one officer. I can’t supervise all my personnel.

Miyakawa had been promised more support, but most of Starfleet viewed an assignment to Starbase 193 as a punitive measure and a blot on their record. So far, all the officers designated to serve on the station had successfully wrangled reassignments; the most recent lieutenant to be posted to the station had chosen to resign from Starfleet instead.

Until reinforcements arrived, Miyakawa would do her best to hold the fort. Today that meant having a little talk with Grede after his next duty shift.

“I have some information for you.”

“For me?” said Grede. “But, Camenae, you know I haven’t got enough credits to buy anything from you.”

“Oh, but this information is free.”

“Free?” He squirmed uneasily in his chair. She could see fear pooling in his eyes.

“According to my sources, Starbase 75 is now receiving Captain Picard’s mission reports.”

Unfortunately, the contents of the communiqu`es were beyond her reach, but this fact alone was sufficient for her purpose.

Grede was a little slow to make the obvious connection, but it finally came to him. “They must know the distress call was altered.” That realization drained color from his face.

“Furthermore,” said Camenae. “A Tellarite freighter headed for Orion passed within hailing distance of the Enterprise; it appears to be on a direct heading for this base.” The starship’s destination would be common knowledge within the hour, but the captain of an outbound vessel loaded with contraband had gladly paid for the early warning.

“Camenae, you’ve got to help me!”

“Help of that magnitude is not free. It requires another investment on your part.”

“Another … but that’s how I …” His voice trailed off in confusion. “I’m in enough trouble already.”

Camenae assumed her most reassuring smile. “I can arrange for your transport beyond the reach of the Federation authorities.”

“How soon?” he croaked.

“Just as soon as you transmit a series of coded messages for one of my clients and then erase all records of the proceeding.”

Grede seemed to fold in upon himself, shoulders slumping and head drooping. As she waited for the technician’s answer, Camenae felt a stab of irritation at the difficulty he had making such a simple decision.

Finally, he mumbled his assent.

Commander Miyakawa tossed two tokens next to her empty glass before slipping out of the booth.

There was no point in trying to pay for her bar tab—she had lost that battle long ago—but as a compromise she always left a hefty tip for the waiter.

The money was well spent. Over the last few hours, Miyakawa had surmised much of what Captain Picard had left out of his mission report. Now all she needed to know was why he had held back this information from her.

CHAPTER 10

“T’Sara.”

She did not want to let loose her dream, but somewhere on the other side of consciousness there came an insistent demand for her to wake. Her name was repeated over and over again until she grew weary of resisting and opened her eyes.

“You sleep deeply these days,” said the man who knelt before her. The muscles of Sorren’s face were marshaled into an impassive mask, but he still lacked the necessary discipline to erase concern from his voice; she hoped he never learned to tame his dark, expressive eyes.

Despite the lingering memory of a soft cushioned bed, T’Sara realized she was sitting upright and the wall against her back was hard and unyielding.

“I was dreaming that I was a man asleep— dreaming of mad Vulcans sifting a dry dusty planet in search of lost shards of knowledge. When he wakes, my life will fade away, as will all the stone and mortar surrounding us.”

“You spend too much time in this chamber.”

Sorren was unaware of the frown that slipped past his control; he glanced up at the enthroned figure that loomed over them. “I do not fear the dead, but neither do I seek out their company.”

“The Collector was a less pleasant companion when she was alive,” said T’Sara before she thought to curb her tongue.

His fierce glare was like a shout of anger.

“Another dream?”

She tightened her grip on the Ko N’ya.

He had tried to wrest it from her once before when she spoke of Surak on the plain of Ishaya.

Logic dictated that a young male approaching his physical prime could easily overpower an old woman, yet he had failed to take it from her then.

“No, T’Sara, I did not come to argue with you over the stone.” He still refused to utter its name. “The time for discussion has passed.”

“Explain.”

“I feel honor-bound to inform you of the action we have—” “We?” she demanded.

“Sohle, T’Challo, the entire archaeological team. It is our unanimous decision that your thinking has become increasingly disordered and that you are in need of medical assistance. This morning I received confirmation that a Federation starship has been authorized to return you to Vulcan.”

“My colleagues at the Science Academy will not thank you for that,” she said. “My enemies have thought me mad for over a century, and even my supporters are embarrassed by my empathy for alien cultures. They all would rather that I confine my ravings to a small group of students as far from Vulcan as possible.”

“There is a difference between unorthodox methods and insanity. I have long admired and respected your research, and I value highly what I have learned of your excavation techniques, but even I have lost patience watching you squander your abilities on this quest for the Ko N’ya. And your recent behavior …” were Vulcans always so long-winded, she wondered as Sorren prattled on, or had her patience worn as thin as her aging skin? Her wandering thoughts seized on his earlier words.

“Sorren,” she said with a sharpness born of alarm. “Did you speak of the Ko N’ya in this message of yours?”

“What?” After a moment to reorient himself to her question, he said, “Only in passing.”

“Child, you must not let your adherence to logic block your understanding of races who act on their emotions. News of the Ko N’ya is a beacon for the greedy who …”

She fell silent.

“T’Sara?”

The walls of the chamber were too thick for sound to penetrate, rather she had felt the shouts ringing in the air outside. An inchoate mental surge washed over her again.

“A Call,” she said.

“Yes, I heard it, too!”

They both scrambled to their feet, but Sorren was young and supple and left her far behind as he raced through the dark tunnel toward daylight.

Pushing her bones and muscles beyond the petty annoyances of pain, she gained a new burst of speed and emerged from the ruins. The noonday sun was baking the tiles of the plaza.

“Sorren!”

He was standing just a few meters ahead of her.

At her cry, he twirled to face her, and she saw that his chest had blossomed into fire.

Horror thwarted her understanding, then she realized he had been shot and the force of the phaser blast had thrown his body around, because Sorren himself was already dead. His husk twitched, then collapsed.

T’Sara caught a fleeting glimpse of armored figures, tall men with dusky green skin, rushing toward her. Orions were not known for showing mercy to their victims. Before she could escape back into the shadows of the tower, she was buffeted by two hammer blows of searing heat.

As she fell to her knees, weakened by the destruction gnawing its way through her body, the desire to retaliate against her attackers raged through her mind. She could will their death and the stone would obey.

No, T’Sara, only a foolish old woman would ignore the wisdom of Surak any longer.

She let loose her grip, dropping the Ko N’ya. It hit the ground with a ringing sound, then rolled away with a curious vigor. As the intruders scrabbled in the dirt to recover it, T’Sara curled in upon herself with one last conscious thought.

I will not give it to any living being.

The desert sand faded out from under her …

… to be replaced with the smooth texture of fabric.

The man shivered in the cool air of the cabin and wrapped the covers more tightly around his body. The sensation of a burning pain in his side faded away, but the landscape of the dream itself was etched into his memory.

I am … Jean-Luc Picard.

He opened his eyes and saw T’Sara’s stone glittering in the dark by his bedside.

CHAPTER 11

The chime trilled for a second time, then faded into silence.

The door remained closed.

Beverly Crusher silently debated the wisdom of pressing the call button a third time. She was beginning to feel oddly conspicuous standing in the corridor outside Picard’s cabin at such an early hour of the morning. Not that their breakfast routine was a secret, but she was wary of drawing too much attention to any intimacy between the captain and his chief medical officer. This balancing act between duty and friendship was hard enough to sustain without an audience.

Before she had taken more than two steps away, Crusher heard the door whooshing open behind her.

“Beverly.”

The slurred quality of Picard’s voice prepared her for the sight of his rumpled pajamas.

“Good morning, Jean-Luc.”

He squinted in the bright light of the corridor.

“Sorry, I was up late writing reports for Admiral Matasu, not to mention the Vulcan Science Academy. Then I had the strangest dream …”

“I’ll take a rain check on breakfast.”

“No, please come in.” Picard moved aside to let her pass through the doorway. “I want to tell you ab out my dream.”

She set about ordering tea and biscuits from the replicator while Picard changed into his uniform in the bedroom. By the time the coffee table was set, he had emerged a transformed man, dapper and alert.

“That’s the Heart?” asked Crusher when she saw the object the captain carried with him. She had heard a secondhand recounting of the discovery from Worf late last night when she tended a gash in his hand.

“Yes, this is T’Sara’s Ko N’ya.”

Picard settled down on the sofa beside the doctor. “They were both in my dream.”

“Tell me.” Crusher sipped her tea and listened to Picard recount his version of the Vulcan’s death. As he talked he rolled the stone over and over in his hands as if searching for a chink in its rough surface, a key to the interior.

“So, Detective Hill,” she said when he had reached the end of the tale, “your subconscious thinks a band of Orions killed T’Sara?”

He glanced up from his study of the Heart. “I realize it’s not such a startling conclusion given the evidence.”

“Well, you’ve got a fifty-fifty chance of being right,” said Crusher. From here, the gem that had built empires looked like an ordinary rock.

“But whether it was the Orions or the Ferengi, there aren’t any criminals left alive to bring to justice.”

“Yet there’s at least one accessory lurking on Starbase 193. We’re due to arrive there soon, and I hope the element of surprise will give us an advantage in—” “How could so many people die fighting each other for that thing!”

His eyebrows shot upward at her outburst.

“It’s just so … drab,” said Crusher. “I expected something more dramatic.”

“A faceted ruby the size of a watermelon?”

“Something like that,” she admitted with a laugh.

“If this is the Heart, I’m afraid its only value lies in its historic significance.”

She leaned over the table and dropped her voice to a whisper. “But what about its powers over Darkness?”

Picard smiled somewhat sheepishly. “Oh, I grant the legends are grandly melodramatic … still, it is a rather curious object.”

“In what way?”

He started to speak, then hesitated, then began again. “Perhaps its my overactive imagination at work, but I can feel a heightened quality about it.

Nothing I can put into words.” He shrugged away his inability to explain. “Perhaps Data will be able to quantify its properties.”

“This should provide material for an impressive article for the next archaeological symposium. Not bad for an amateur.” But she could tell from his lack of reaction that Picard wasn’t listening to her anymore.

Propelled by an inner train of thought, the captain suddenly bolted from the table and was halfway across the cabin before he remembered he had company. “Oh, my apologies, Beverly.

It’s just that Data is expecting me to bring the Heart to his laboratory.”

“But, Jean-Luc, you haven’t eaten a thing.”

Even his teacup had gone untouched.

“I’m not hungry. No, really, I’m not.”

“Well, I am. Do you mind if I stay here long enough to finish my biscuit?”

He had the good grace to flush. “Please make yourself at home.” Stopping in the doorway, Picard called back, “I’ll make it up to you. Why don’t we have dinner tomorrow night?”

“Yes, I’d like—” Then he was gone.

“This may take some time,” said Data as he carefully placed the stone in the center of a small metallic stage.

“Actually,” said Picard, craning his neck to follow Data’s movements, “I’d like to stay and watch.”

“As you wish, sir.” The weight of the specimen triggered a ripple of electronic chirps across a control console; Data quickly tapped a series of minor adjustments to the estimated calibration figures he had entered earlier.

After he positioned the first equipment array over the stage, Data provided a running commentary of the laboratory procedure in specimen analysis. To his gratification, the captain appeared to welcome the information; unfortunately, this was not always the case.

“By combining the three different techniques,” the android continued, as he concluded the final step of the third measurement, “I should be able to determine the age of the stone to a value of plus or minus one hundred years.”

The results of the calculation were not what he had expected.

“Is something wrong, Data?” asked the captain, stepping closer to the equipment. “What have you found?”

“Preliminary dating analysis indicates the object is remarkably young, falling in a range between eight hundred and one thousand years old. This would fall far short of the reputed age of the Ko N’ya.”

Picard was silent for a moment, then said, “I suggest you run the dating analysis again.”

“Certainly, Captain. As you wish.”

Data reached out to reconfigure the equipment for a repetition of the dating scans.

“What else did you find?” asked Picard.

“Meir-Delaplace analysis indicates the rock was formed from a mixture of a common crystalline form of silicon dioxide and a metamorphic sandstone—” “Data!” Evidently this answer did not please the captain either. “T’Sara did not spend over a hundred years of her life looking for a rock. It may look like rock, but it is … well, more than that. According to her theory this relic possesses unusual and puzzling features. For instance, what about the warmth?”

Data assumed a slightly puzzled frown as a visual adjunct to his reply. “I record no difference between the temperature of the object and that of the ship’s interior.”

“But when I held it before I could feel the warmth.” Picard shoved aside the equipment array to seize the rock. “I can feel it now.”

“Indeed?” Data double-checked his instrument readout, but there was no indication of a scientific basis for the captain’s perception. “Perhaps you could hold the stone while the analysis is in progress?”

“Certainly, if that’s what it takes to prove my point.”

Before Data could activate the appropriate equipment, they were interrupted by an intercom call.

“Riker to Captain Picard.”

“Picard here.”

“We’re being hailed by Starbase 193.

Commander Miyakawa requests a conference with you concerning your mission progress.”

“I’ll conduct it in my ready room, Number One.” With a sigh of exasperation, Picard sketched a parting wave to Data.

“You’ll have to carry on without me.”

“Captain?”

“Yes?”

“I would like to continue my analysis of the … object.” Data pointed to the stone still cradled in the crook of Picard’s arm.

Picard stopped in mid-stride. “Oh, yes, of course.”

Data retrieved the specimen from the captain, then stood in place holding the stone in his hands.

It never warmed to his touch.

“Qu`e pasa, Picard?” Estrella Miyakawa still rolled the r in his name, but her Mexican accent had been muted over the years.

He studied her image on the desk monitor and noted a few streaks of white in her straight black hair; otherwise, time had touched her very lightly.

“Estoy bien,” answered Picard. She had taught him what little Spanish he knew in exchange for tutoring her in calculus; he never mastered the language, and she failed the Academy course.

“So why have you been sending me mission reports that could be written on the head of a pin?”

Age had not softened her blunt manner.

“Perhaps I erred on the side of succinctness,” said Picard, displaying his most genial, diplomatic smile.

She laughed in his face. “Captain, you’ve cut me out of the information loop since your departure from Atropos, and I want to know why.”

“Commander, my last report on the Ferengi distress—” “Did not contain one word about the destruction of the Orion ship Dark Runner.”

“How did you hear of that?” asked Picard.

“News travels fast in this sector. Although, as a Federation official, I was probably the last person on the starbase to find out. Any idea why they were fighting, or are you going to keep that to yourself as well?”

He sighed at the increasing tone of bitterness in her voice. Any further attempt at secrecy would only alienate his one ally on the base, not to mention cost him the goodwill of an old friend. “Estrella, I have reason to believe that the security of your communications system has been breached. Until the source of the leak is found, I prefer not to discuss the details of the mission.”

“Oh, I have a pretty good idea of who’s responsible already,” she said grimly. “One of my communications operators—Thomas Grede.

Unfortunately, Mr. Grede met with an accident last night. It seems that when he came off shift, he took a wrong turn and walked out an airlock.”

“He was murdered.”

“Thank you, Jean-Luc, but that thought had occurred to me already. I’ll fill you in on the details when you arrive.”

There went his advantage. “How the devil did you know the Enterprise was headed for Starbase 193?”

“The usual base channels,” said Miyakawa with a wry smile. “I overheard it in a bar.”

“Of course, it’s not just any bar,” explained the commander later that day as she and Picard walked through the doorway of the Due or Die. “This is Camenae’s bar, and that makes all the difference.”

The dimly lit room was crowded, with no empty tables, but one of the waiters waved them over to a booth. Two Tellarites and an Andorian scrambled off the benches with half-filled drinks still clutched in their hands.

Picard heard their muttered curses as he and Miyakawa settled into the hastily vacated booth. Another waiter swept by and left two glasses of synthehol in his wake. “Are these the perks of base command?”

“Some of the very few,” sighed Miyakawa.

“Camenae, for reasons I haven’t yet fathomed, likes to maintain the fiction that I’m a power to be reckoned with on this station. Perhaps the tourists find the illusion of law and order comforting.”

“You weren’t this cynical at the Academy.”

She shrugged and gestured toward the patrons of the densely packed bar. A group of Ferengi merchants were huddled at one end of the room; Orions were at the other end; in between, Picard counted at least ten other alien races, none of them known for their pacifism or a highly developed sense of ethics.

“I’m one Starfleet officer working alone in a den of smugglers, thieves, and cutthroats. If I ever manage to get my hands on any hard evidence of criminal activity, I’ll probably end up walking out an airlock just like Grede.” She downed her drink in one gulp, then said, “Which hasn’t stopped me from trying, mind you.

However, Camenae is fond of me, so she works very hard to keep compromising materials out of my reach.”

“Just who is this Camenae?” asked Picard.

“Officially, she’s merely one of the inhabitants of the starbase, but unofficially, I’d have to say that Camenae is the real administrator of this place. I may supervise the base’s technical services and facilities, but Camenae runs its affairs.

She always knows what’s going on in every corner of this sector, so if someone wants information, she sells it to them; when something needs to be done, she arranges it.”

“Does that include murder?”

“I’m sure it does.” Miyakawa frowned, then shook her head. “But I don’t think she ordered Grede’s death. It was a sloppy job, and Camenae would never allow one of her informants to be killed in such an obvious way.”

“But you think she knows who did?”

“Yes. Not that I’ll ever be able to get that information out of her; and unless she gives the signal, there’s not a single being on the starbase who will talk to me about Grede’s death.”

“So you’re telling me that the murderer will go free?” said Picard angrily.

“Without any evidence, or any witnesses, my hands are—” Miyakawa was cut off by the crash of heavy furniture and a stream of curses uttered in a mixture of Ferengi and Federation Standard.

“Nothing!” continued the Ferengi who had overturned a chair as he staggered to his feet; he was weaving back and forth in place. “Bruk says he found nothing in the wreckage but my brother’s corpse!”

One of his companions plucked at the sleeve of his gray jacket, but the Ferengi swatted away the restraining hand.

“The salvage effort alone will bankrupt me.

All it brings me is the trouble of selling Maarc’s ship for scrap metal and the exorbitant expense of the crew’s funeral.”

“I think I’ve met his brother,” said Picard softly. “Perhaps we should leave before—” “Ah ha!” The Ferengi was staring directly at them. “The captain of the Enterprise has come to laugh at my defeat.”

“Too late, Jean-Luc,” said Miyakawa, as the bantamweight Ferengi bore down upon them as fast as his unsteady legs could carry him. His domed head and flaring ears had flushed a deep red from too much drink and an excess of rage.

“You were there, thief!” His finger jabbed repeatedly at Picard’s chest. “Return what is rightfully mine, what you stole from my brother!”

Before Picard could form a reply, a dark hand settled on the Ferengi’s shoulder. The woman’s grip was firm enough to choke off any further accusations.

“DaiMon Tork,” she said in a low voice. “I prefer my customers to conduct their private business with greater discretion and decorum.”

So this was Camenae.

Then the bar owner turned her attention to Picard, and he was struck by the intensity of her gaze. There was a familiar quality to her face that he couldn’t quite place.

“Welcome to the Due or Die, Captain Picard. My apologies for the disturbance.”

The Ferengi uttered a strangled squeak of protest.

“DaiMon Tork,” said Picard in a voice loud enough to carry to all corners of the bar.

“You have my word that we took nothing that belonged to the Ferengi off that ship.”

Camenae’s lips curved into a smile, and she released her hold on Tork.

“Just as I thought,” the DaiMon groaned, collapsing onto the floor. He rubbed gingerly at his sore shoulder. “Scrap metal and funeral expenses.”

With a snap of her fingers, Camenae signaled Tork’s companions to carry him away, and they scurried forward to do her bidding.

The sense of familiarity deepened. “Have we met before?”

“I’m disappointed, Captain Picard. I expected a more original opening line from you.”

En garde.

Perhaps she would respond to a direct approach. “Commander Miyakawa tells me you’re in the information business. I’d like to become one of your customers.”

“That’s a much better tactic,” she said.

“Unfortunately, Starfleet doesn’t have an account with me, and I’m not accepting new clients at the moment. If you like, I’ll put you on my waiting list.”

Lunge and parry.

“At the very least,” said Picard, “I’d like the opportunity to talk to you in private … about Thomas Grede.”

Camenae shook her head gently.

“I have nothing to say to you that can’t be discussed right here in the middle of the Due or Die. Private meetings with Starfleet officers are bad for my business reputation.” Touch`e. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Captain, I must get back to work.”

She glided away.

The memory of Camenae’s smoky eyes haunted Picard all the way back to the Enterprise. However, standing in his brightly illuminated ready room, Picard realized that his impressions of the Due or Die and its elusive owner would be impossible to convey in words. He restricted himself to relating the bare bones of his experience to his first officer.

“That’s it?” Riker rocked back in his chair so he could look Picard in the eye. “Grede was the victim of an accidental death under unknown circumstances?”

Picard’s hands gripped the back of his desk chair. He could not bring himself to sit down since at any moment he should receive a call that would pull him away. “I’m not comfortable with Miyakawa’s preliminary ruling either. However, I have a better appreciation for the difficulties of her situation now that I’ve actually visited Starbase 193.

The Federation’s control of this area is relatively recent and definitely precarious.”

Riker held up one hand and ticked off the points of contention across his fingertips. “So the Orions can’t be brought to justice because they were killed by the Ferengi, and the communications officer who leaked the information about the Heart has conveniently died so he can’t be charged, and the case of the murder of ten Vulcans is now closed.”

“Yes, it is suspiciously neat and tidy,” said the captain. The call still had not come, and he began to admit that the delay worried him.

“So what do we do now?” asked Riker.

Picard appreciated the effort it must have taken for his first officer to maintain a neutral tone to ask this question. At warp eight the Enterprise could still reach Luxor IV in time for the poker tournament. “I’ve assured Commander Miyakawa that we’ll remain in the area another twenty-four hours to provide at least a token show of strength in the sector.”

“I’m glad to hear that, sir.”

Despite the personal sacrifice involved, Riker’s reaction seemed sincere. Picard knew the first officer disliked letting bullies go unchallenged. “Will you consider allowing shore leave privileges—” “Let’s continue this discussion later, Number One,” said the captain. He moved out from behind the desk at a brisk pace. “I should have received Data’s report on the Heart by now.”

Picard bolted out the door before his first officer could trail after him.

Data accepted as an axiom of his construction that he did not possess emotions; therefore, he could initiate yet another repetition of his laboratory procedures without an accompanying sense of frustration or anger. However, based on his experience with the crew of the Enterprise, the android greatly suspected that these were precisely the set of emotions that he should be feeling at this time.

Moving the equipment array into position over the specimen, he closely monitored his actions so that he might detect any departure from his previous routines. No difference. He had followed the same pattern of movement with the same precision each of the four times before.

Data repeated the dating measurement a fifth time.

A new result appeared on his viewscreen.

Entirely new. Over the course of hours, he had not been able to obtain the same age for the specimen twice in a row.

Since there was no reason to believe that a sixth attempt would reveal any new insights, Data concluded that another approach was required.

Unfortunately, the formulation of such an approach eluded him.

The android was pondering the nature of scientific inspiration when the doors of the laboratory parted to admit a swiftly moving Captain Picard. Judging from the somewhat grim set of the captain’s facial features, Data surmised there was no need for an exchange of pleasantries and launched into an immediate explanation of the project’s difficulties.

Picard’s expression hardened even more as he listened.

“The largest given value was twenty million years old,” continued Data. “Which would be consistent with the theory of the Heart’s involvement with ancient history. Unfortunately, the extreme variations raise considerable doubt as to the validity of any of the results I have obtained.”

“Obviously your equipment is malfunctioning, Mr. Data,” said Picard. He plucked the stone off the scan stage and carefully examined its surface for signs of damage.

“I ran extensive diagnostic tests subsequent to each of the anomalous findings. There is no sign of malfunction. Furthermore, my measurement of all other test objects has been consistent and predictable. There appears to be some substance in the specimen itself which interferes with the scan.”

“Earlier, you claimed it was nothing more than a rock.”

Data attempted a shrug. “Apparently the composition analysis was in error. I shall repeat that procedure as well.”

He extended one arm, reaching for the stone, but Picard took a step backward as if to evade him. “I think we should suspend any further analysis until you’ve straightened out the technical difficulties in the laboratory equipment.”

“Captain, the specimen would be useful in determining—” Picard stepped away again. “Until you can establish the nature of the malfunction, I won’t risk inflicting any damage to the Heart.” Cradling the stone in the crook of his arm, he said, “I’ll keep it in my cabin for now.”

Data searched for the emotion that might best suit this situation. The answer came to him just after the captain’s departure exasperation.

He wondered what it felt like.

END OF VOLUME I

THE DEVIL’S HEART

by Carmen Carter

Volume II of Three Volumes Pages i-ii and 159-344

For special distribution as authorized by Act of Congress under Public Law 89-522, andwiththe permission of the copyright holder.

Produced in braille for the Library of Congress, National Library Service for the Blind and Physically Handicapped, by Braille International, Inc., 1996.

THE DEVIL’S HEART

CHAPTER 12

For one hour every night, the Due or Die was closed for a perfunctory cleaning. Grumbling patrons were pushed off the premises or carried out into the corridor if they lacked the ability to walk by themselves; it was an open secret on the starbase that the synthehol served at the bar had an unusually potent effect on anyone who slipped a hefty tip to the bartender.

Other branches of Camenae’s business, however, were open at all times. So while Orlev wiped stains off the pitted countertop, Camenae perched on a barstool, waiting patiently for the arrival of one of her operatives.

“We’ve been very busy lately,” said the bartender as he gathered up an armful of dirty glasses.

His breathy, sibilant complaint reflected her own train of thought. She sighed in agreement.

“For ten years we laughed at that old Vulcan woman and her quest for a mythical treasure. But now, it seems the joke is on us. She found that damn Heart—and disrupted this entire sector.”

Of course, the greedy scramble after the relic had also fattened Camenae’s coffers, but she distrusted these windfall profits. They were short-lived and unpredictable, not to mention that her overhead had also risen sharply.

For instance, there was the matter of Thomas Grede.

She had promised to transport him to safety, and she was in the habit of keeping her word. After all, broken contracts were bad for business.

A warning whistle from Kajima announced the arrival of someone at the threshold of the bar.

“It’s the Squib,” announced the guard after he checked the image coming from the security camera.

Camenae nodded and slipped off the barstool.

The Norsican knew to wait for her retreat into the back office before he released the lock on the entrance.

She was seated in her customary place when she heard the clicking sound of chitonous legs on the metallic deck. Krtakk scurried forward to greet her with a customary wave of its eye stalks. As a longtime operative, it knew not to waste any more time on extraneous civilities.

“As you suspected, Camenae,” it said in a chittering voice. “Lord Reyjad@an stole the transport papers from Grede and obtained free passage on the Villareal all the way to Smelter’s Hold.”

“After that?”

To her disgust, Krtakk bobbed its hard-shelled body up and down, a submissive gesture that signaled failure. “I could find no trace of the unDiWahn after leaving the Villareal.

He has gone into hiding somewhere on the Hold, but it will take time and money to determine who is sheltering him.”

“Continue the trace, whatever the cost.”

The Squib chirped its acceptance of the task.

“There is one item more Grede was supposed to erase all traces of the alien’s transmissions, but the new tech in communications was able to recover a scrap that escaped overwrite.”

Krtakk executed a rapid series of nervous bobs. “Unfortunately, the price for commissioning the effort was exorbitant and the result disappointing.”

“Let me hear it anyway,” said Camenae with a sigh of resignation at the escalating cost of her revenge.

A tentacle looped up over the table edge and dropped a small vocoder into the palm of her hand. Camenae pressed a control switch and sound issued forth from its speaker.

“… seeking has ended. The Gem has been uncovered, and it is again …”

That was all. Such a small scrap and yet so very revealing.

“Thank you, Krtakk. You have done well.”

The Squib squeaked, surprised by her praise, then scuttled away with a churring prattle of self-congratulations.

Camenae played the short recording over several times, listening carefully to the quality of the voice instead of the words. The content was indeed unrewarding, but there was an unexpected value in hearing Reyjad@an speak in private his crisp enunciation of Federation Standard was devoid of the thick oily accent and hissing sound he had used with her.

Evidently she had underestimated the unDiWahn. And poor Grede had paid the price of her miscalculation.

Some men turned to fat in their old age, but First Prefect Lorris had added no weight to his lean, muscular frame as decade piled on decade. By his ninetieth year, his eyesight had not dimmed, the peaked scrollwork of his ears missed no whisper of gossip or slander, and his dry laughter had developed a blade-sharp edge that could cut his victims to the quick. If his reflexes had slowed any since his youth, Lorris had hidden that change beneath an imposing dignity of bearing.

His one concession to the passage of time was a diminished patience for disruption and disorder. So, as his family size swelled with succeeding generations of offspring, Lorris retreated more and more often to the sheltered confines of his library.

Only on this morning, when the prefect entered his sanctuary he found it already occupied. His irritation at the violation of his privacy was mollified once he recognized the uniformed intruder. Subcommander Vedoc was rooted in place by one of the tallest bookshelves, head bent over an open book; he was so immersed in his study that he had not heard the door of the room open.

“For a soldier, you read a great deal of history, Nephew.”

The young man twirled around. Then, with a smile of greeting, he ducked his head in an informal gesture of respect that acknowledged close family ties yet did not forget the distance between their ranks. “Your library is impossible to resist, Uncle. I have spent many of my ship leaves in this room.”

“Hah! If you value your career, you should be out whoring and drinking with your shipmates.” Settling into a broad chair in the middle of the room, the old man beckoned his sister’s son to come closer. “There was a time, in the early days of the Empire, when an officer was despised as a common throat-slitter if he did not also cultivate a knowledge of art, music, and literature. Those days are gone. Most of my fellow prefects are either mercenaries or bureaucrats, and I suspect that they consider me to be a peevish eccentric.”

“Then I appear to take after you.”

“You could do worse,” said Lorris with a sniff. Vedoc had always been a favorite of his, more so than any of his own spawn. The prefect was struck with a sudden inspiration, and he forged his attack strategy with the same rapidity that he had used as a commander in battle. “That book you are holding is contraband.”

The young man looked down in surprise at the volume in his hands. “But if that is so, however did you obtain it, Uncle?”

Lorris chuckled at the boy’s na@ivet`e.

“One of the advantages of a military career is the chance to make contacts with unsavory characters; the Ferengi, for instance. A loathsome race, but they do have their uses.”

“They smuggled Federation books to you for payment?”

“For payment, yes,” said the old man. “But also for trade. There are those in the Federation who are equally curious about the Romulans. In fact, as a centurion I provided the author of that very book,” he pointed once again to the tome in his nephew’s hands, “with a copy of the early history of the Romulan people.”

“I’ve read several of her works here in the library,” said Vedoc eagerly. “She’s a fine scholar.”

“Was a fine scholar. According to my contacts, T’Sara died just a few days ago.”

“Of old age?”

“Perhaps,” said Lorris with a shrug. “She must have been close to three centuries old. Yet the report is that she died along with a group of other Vulcans, which implies the death was not natural.”

“Her loss will be a blow to Federation science.”

“I agree, but the Vulcans do not value her scholarship as highly as we do. Evidently T’Sara’s uncanny understanding of alien emotion offends their delicate sensibilities.”

The young man frowned. “There is much I do not understand about the Vulcans.”

“They are a dull race, Vedoc. Their philosophy of logic leaves no room for the vices that make life worthwhile.” It was time to test the waters; with a deep sigh, Lorris added, “Yet the only vice I have carried into my old age is curiosity … and I am curious to learn how T’Sara died and what has come of her research into our legends. The answers I seek may do nothing more than satisfy my meddlesome nature, but then again … well, t hey may do far more.”

Vedoc’s eyebrows angled upward; this turn in the discussion had definitely piqued his interest.

“I have the ear of the Praetor,” continued the first prefect, “and in payment for some long-standing debts born of my attention to his private affairs, he has agreed to send a warbird beyond the Neutral Zone to investigate the matter.”

His nephew’s interest heightened into alarm.

Eyes wide with disbelief, he said, “He would violate the Neutral Zone treaty for this venture?”

“For a chance to possess the Ko N’ya, the Praetor would do anything.” Lorris chortled softly. “Or at least, order someone else to do anything.”

“The Ko N’ya,” whispered the young man. The library was warm, yet he shivered as if a cold draft had chilled his bones. “A myth risen from the Vaults of the Dead.”

“You have a vivid imagination, Vedoc, but then so did I at your age. Military service will teach you how to channel that faculty into more sensible pursuits.”

His nephew stiffened to attention, a tactful response that did not commit him to agreement.

Enough dallying, thought the prefect. There was not much time to implement this revision to his plans. “It would please me to have these proceedings supervised by someone who is personally concerned with our family interests.”

Vedoc caught his meaning without difficulty.

“Can you arrange for my transfer to the warbird?”

“Oh, yes,” said Lorris with a wry smile.

“I have nearly as many favors to call in as I have books on these shelves.”

“Then I am yours to command, Uncle.”

“Excellent. Prepare to leave this house within the hour.” Lorris was impressed by the young soldier’s courage. His sister’s son would make a fine prefect some day and bring new honors to the family name.

If he survived this mission, of course.

Those called to the Gathering began to assemble when the first moon of DiWahn started its climb up through the twilight sky. Out of houses and inns, through darkening streets, the robed figures streamed toward the Gateway Temple. Heavy cowls hid the faces of those who called themselves the unDiWahn. Some walked singly, others in pairs or small groups, but by the time they reached the tiled plaza surrounding the high tower, their swelling numbers had merged into one mass of the Faithful.

Townspeople not sworn to the Faith cowered in their homes, for within memory there had never been a Gathering as large as this one. Every Guardian on the face of the planet must have journeyed to the walled city of Iconiad@an, but no one outside the order had envisioned there were so many to answer the call; the sound of their swishing robes seeped like flood waters through barred doors and shuttered windows.

Those men and women who had settled into a complacent acceptance of their adopted world were reminded once again of half-forgotten legends of ancient Iconia and its lost grandeur. In fearful whispers, they wondered what cabalistic cataclysm had roused the Guardians. The Faithful kept alive the memories of their race before the Passage through the Gate, and they possessed knowledge beyond the understanding of farmers and merchants; therefore, whatever alarmed the Guardians might well terrify a commoner.

When the moon reached its zenith, tolling bells chased a few stragglers through the massive archways at the base of the tower, and thick doors hewn from the strongest wood swung back into place to seal all entrances against any uninitiated intruders.

Body pressed tightly against body inside the domed chamber that barely contained the assembly; but in the very center of the densely packed crowd there was a clearing just large enough for one hooded figure to sit cross-legged on the floor. The abstract mosaic design beneath this Guardian marked the spot where the first Iconian had stepped through the Gateway; only a handful of the Faithful had the right to occupy this place of honor.

After the last knell faded into silence, the Master rose from the floor and pushed back the heavy folds of the hood to reveal a man in the middle years of his life. The scalloped ridges of his forehead were plainly patterned, devoid of beauty yet not quite ugly; his skin was the pale shade of violet that marked him as a native of the southern hemisphere of the planet.

One by one, the members of the Gathering followed his example. When all of the Guardians had bared their heads, Kierad@an spoke in a deep, melodious voice that could reach every straining ear and fill it with honey. The only sound from the listening host was their soft breathing.

“Here is the story, as my grandfather told it to me …”

When I was a young man, newly initiated into our order, an offworlder came to my village to live. She was a tall woman with delicate, sweeping features and hair the color of ash; her dark eyes burned with the desire to learn the language and ways of our people. I had never seen her like before, and she said that she was the first of her race to set foot upon DiWahn; however, my elders among the Faithful knew her already.

At that time, I was still too young to have learned more than a half dozen Dreams, but Ikajad@an assured me that T’Sara was part of the Gem’s lore and that she was destined to become one facet of the Dreaming.

For weeks I listened as the Guardians debated their part in the Gem’s plan and how to fulfill it. Some among them said it would be sacrilege to even contemplate action, that such direct interference would actually disrupt the course of the Dreaming; others denounced this passivity, believing instead that the unDiWahn had been chosen to set T’Sara on the proper path.

In the end, the way was simple.

Ikajad@an invited her to attend the Tellings. There was no precedent for allowing one unsworn to the Faith to hear the Dreams, and T’Sara quickly sensed that she had been greatly honored. So night after night she joined me as we took our place in the circle of Guardians; and each night someone recited one of the Dreams recorded by our Iconian ancestors, although never one in which she had a part.

She listened patiently at first, then with a growing hunger that carried her through the entire winter.

On the first day of spring, Ikajad@an recounted the death of Iconia, and thus reached the end of the ancient lore. By this time, T’Sara yearned to discover what had become of Kanda Jiak’s Gem and to fully understand its powers.

Her restlessness drove her away from our world, but she was not lost to us. Always I knew where to find her, and those Dreams were the ones I never tired of hearing.

Kierad@an paused for breath, then said, “That is the end of my grandfather’s Telling, but the story does not end there.

“For many years, T’Sara sent word of her search to several of the unDiWahn who had tutored her. Then, one by one these Guardians grew old and died, until there was no one left among the Faithful who was known to her, and her letters stopped.

“My father took part in the Gathering that chose one of its number to leave DiWahn and seek her out.

Jaradad@an spent the rest of his life on this mission, wandering from one planet to another in T’Sara’s wake, always careful to keep out of her sight. His son was born offworld and continues the work of his father.”

Raising his hands high into the air, Kierad@an proclaimed, “Reyjad@an has this to say to us T’Sara’s seeking has ended; the Gem has been uncovered; and it is again time for the Faithful to take a part in the Dreaming.”

His words unleashed a storm of emotion from the Guardians. Shouts of joy mixed with the sobs of those moved to tears by the arrival of a day foretold in myth. Young and old, men and women, strangers and friends, all embraced each other as kin.

Kierad@an waited for the throes of their fervor to calm, then he drew a scroll from the folds of his robe. The parchment was yellow with age, and it was tied with leather laces.

“We have prepared for this day in many ways. There are those among you who were chosen to pave the path we must follow, others to walk its length.” He scanned the multitude of eager faces that had turned back toward him. “Daramad@an!”

A large, heavyset man pushed his way through the assembly to the center of the chamber. Few of the Guardians had ever met this man, but everyone knew of him by another name; his inclusion in the order had never been revealed before.

“Are you with us?” asked Kierad@an. It was a ritual question, but the answer had never carried so much weight as it did tonight.

“I am with you,” said the one that most of DiWahn knew as Admiral Jakat. “As are my forces.”

“Hai!” A chorus of voices scattered throughout the crowd attested to the loyalty of the senior officers Daramad@an had brought into the order.

Bowing his head in a gesture of subservience, the admiral of the DiWahn space fleet asked, “Where are we to go, Master?”

“To the Appointed Place,” said Kierad@an.

At his touch, the brittle leather ties circling the scroll crumbled into dust. He unfurled the sheet and held it high so all could see what was drawn on its surface.

It was a map filled with stars and a single blazing comet.

CHAPTER 13

The sighing winds carried aloft the moans and cries of the dying as if beseeching the heavens for pity, but the red sun was merciless. Blazing in noonday splendor, it dried the throats and tongues of men too weak to crawl toward shelter, and beat down upon bodies that had no warmth of their own. Small fires smoldered in the blood-sodden ground, then guttered out in trails of dark, foul smoke. Here and there across the littered field were flutters of movement the trembling of limbs as death finally took hold of an eviscerated warrior, the lazy flap of wings as a carrion-eater feasted on the carna ge, the rippling of a clan banner whose broken staff was driven through the chest of the standard-bearer.

As the sun tipped over on its westward descent toward the jagged peaks of Mt.

Selaya, and the dry desert breezes gathered strength, one lone figure broke the taut line of the horizon. He picked his way carefully, stepping over the fallen warriors if possible, skirting around them when the mounds of intertwined bodies grew too deep. His tunic was clean, unspotted, untorn, but his legs and sandal laces were streaked with the olive color of drying gore.

The boy stopped for a moment, winded by his long run from the mountain village and his tortured progress through the battlefield of Ishaya; closed eyes gave respite to his mind. His mother and the healers had demanded that he stay in isk’Kahr, but he had twisted out of T’Leia’s grasp and raced away.

“Wait!” they had cried after him. “You are too young,” they had Called into his mind when he passed beyond hearing.

He was much older now.

In the last hour he had learned that the colorful scenes of clashing armies intricately embroidered in tapestries and the lilting melody of the War Ballads were all treats for children, just like the tales of wise old sehlats who talked to lost hunters. Emerald-green thread shimmered in lamplight, but the blood that covered his own legs was not so pretty, and armor had no luster when it was splattered with gore. Five Vulcan clans had emptied their veins into this sandy plain, sullying its air with the stink of putrefaction; few survived to sing tales of bravery, or even of treachery. Where was the glory in this silence?

Come.

The need to continue pressed against his mind again.

He had mistaken the desire for his own curiosity, for his own willfulness, but now he recognized that the summons was from without, a Call from someone alive and adrift in this sea of corpses. He opened his eyes and scanned the torn landscape.

“Father?”

He was answered by a visceral tug toward the north, as if a hand plucked weakly at his sleeve when lips could no longer form words.

His pace quickened now that he had been given a path to follow and a sense of purpose. Even the horrors of the killing field were less shocking than before. The endless variations of mutilation—charred limbs, split skulls, sunken chests—all played out the basic theme of death. The weapons also varied in configuration, yet all had drawn sufficient blood to silence their enemies. Some of the slain were unmarked, showing no open wounds, but their faces were clenched and contorted in the grotesque physical manifestation of the Calls that had expertly twisted their minds.

The tattered remnants of a bright red flag caught his eye. He approached it with dread, torn between the urgency of his father’s Call and fear of where it drew him. Yes, his family had fought here. By a freak accident of the wind, the cloth was draped like a shroud across the body of one of his clansmen, mimicking the act of a healer acknowledging the limits of her art. His search was almost over.

My son.

The Call was weaker than before, yet still he could sense that his father lay nearby.

He took one step forward, then faltered when he saw the face of the body lying in his path.

Surrell lay crumpled on the ground where a shard of metal had pinned him down; he had died in agony, thrashing to free himself. To lose any brother was a cause for grief, but this brother had been a favorite, and his death brought more pain than all the other horrors the boy had witnessed.

A second step revealed another slain brother.

Then a third.

All the dead before him had names; he had seen each of these still, pale faces laughing in the radiant moonlight during the last Festival of Moons. Brothers, uncles, cousins; there were too many to mourn.

“Father!”

“Here.” The soft word was spoken, not Sent.

The boy frantically scrabbled through the dead bodies until his hands touched warm flesh. He fell to his knees by the side of his father. Stef’s face was covered with blood, blurring the familiar angular features. His eyes, normally dark and piercing, were clouded with pain and exhaustion, but they cleared when he felt the touch of a hand on his arm.

“I’ve come, Father.”

“What, no other sons left?” asked Stef, his weak voice hoarse with anger.

“No, Father, just me.”

“So be it. I will have more sons.” With a gasping breath to gather strength for movement, Stef drew back his cloak to reveal a small object nestled by his side. “Behold your birthright and your future the king-maker, Ko N’ya!”

“This is what my brothers died for?” asked the boy. He had overheard Surrell and the others whispering in the dark when they had thought he was safely asleep; they had spun strange tales of a relic of great power that would bring immense wealth to the clan that possessed it. Yet this dull gray rock was not worth one day of Surrell’s life.

“Death is a small price to pay for our place in history. My dynasty shall unite all Vulcan,” said his father. He lifted up the stone and his voice grew louder. “We will live forever … rule forever.”

The boy reached out to touch the rough surface of the Ko N’ya, but Stef pulled it away.

“Mine!” he hissed. “Do not be so eager to succeed me.”

“No, Father, I never meant—” Stef’s cry of pain cut off the boy’s apology. A spasm racked through the man’s body, twisting his muscles into knots and robbing him of the strength to hold the stone. It slipped from his trembling fingers, and the boy lunged forward to catch it before it hit the ground.

Mine!

“Father?”

The soft flutter of Stef’s Calling mind faded to silence.

The boy rocked back on his heels, the Ko N’ya in his hands. He was the only living being left on the plain of Ishaya.

Desert nights are chill on Vulcan. The borrowed warmth of the sun does not linger for very long in the dark. A young boy in a linen shirt and sleeveless vest would need to huddle close to the licking flames of a fire in order to survive until morning.

Not this boy.

He sat cross-legged on the cold ground, yet his limbs did not shiver and tremble. The stone rested in the palms of his hands where he held its weight all night without strain. Under moonlight it transformed into a crystalline gem, glittering and sparkling as if lit from within, but at dawn the spell was broken.

A hoarse shouting reverberated across the plain, and the boy looked up to see figures moving in the distance. At first he assumed the people of his village had finally arrived to seek out their dead, but as the group drew nearer he caught the foreign lilt to their voices. They spoke with the harsh bark of warriors, not healers. Another clan, probably the Ghe’Hara, he guessed once he could see the cut of their armor. He counted eight men scouring the field, darting here and there and rummaging among the dead as if in search of something.

More fierce shouting ensued when one of the men gestured toward the red flag of Stef’s clan.

The troop began to run across the field, heedless of the dead underfoot, and in their haste one of the warriors nearly trampled over the boy where he sat silent and unmoving.

“Th’a!” cursed the man, jumping back as if a serpent had crawled out of the grass. He took a wild shot with a phaser, and the boy felt the breath of the beam’s passage a scant inch from his cheek. “Garamond, come see what I’ve found!”

One of the warriors veered aside to answer the call. He was tall and carried himself with a confident swagger. Where his companions wore the functional armor that would repel modern weapon fire, his suit was crafted along ancient design; and the decorative sword that swung from his belt was just as lethal as their phasers.

The sight of the boy, and what he possessed, brought a grunt of surprise to Garamond’s lips. “You have something that belongs to me.”

The boy looked up, but did not speak.

Garamond stepped back, instinctively brandishing his sword. A trick of the morning light had given the boy the face of an old man. One blink and the illusion was gone.

“Give it up to me, child.”

“My name is Surak,” said the boy quietly. “And I will not give you this stone. I will not give it to any living being.”

“Are you so eager to die, young one?” Garamond resheathed his weapon, more curious than kind in the face of this unexpected defiance.

“No, I don’t wish to die,” said Surak, “but I could not live with that deed on my conscience.”

“Then you propose to keep this bauble to yourself?”

The boisterous laughter that followed his question covered a growing uneasiness. Garamond’s grip on the sword handle tightened again. If the stone held Powers, then this boy could be as dangerous as his elders and must be killed after all.

“No, I have no need for it now that the sun has risen.” To Garamond’s relief, the young boy bent forward and placed the stone on the ground.

“You have given it to me after all,” the man crowed as his fist closed over the rough rock and hefted it high into the air.

Surak shook his head. “You have taken it of your own free will.”

“A fine distinction, my young philosopher,” said Garamond with a lifted brow. “But why do you disdain these Powers. It is rumored this dull gem you have tossed aside can fulfill all desires.

The Ko N’ya could even raise the dead of your clan.”

Surak surveyed the field of slaughter with a new dispassion. “They chose this fate, so restoring them to life would only prolong the battle.”

His hands clenched, then eased again. Laying his open palms down upon his knees, he continued.

“I don’t seek the fulfillment of desires.

I have chosen to end the desires themselves.”

I have chosen to end the desires themselves.

The words were spoken in Ancien t Vulcan, with the lilting cadence of a pre-Reform dialect.

Picard shifted in his bed, and the movement pulled him closer to consciousness.

The phrase whispered again, but this time he could not fathom any meaning in the guttural sounds.

He slipped back into another dream.

The bedchamber walls were hung with intricately woven tapestries of panoramic views that rivaled nature, but the fabrics were muted by dust and heavy shadows. Rugs covered the flagstone floor, but their colors and patterns had been worn away by the scuffle and tread of five generations. Once the room had been filled with rich furnishings of dark wood deep chairs that invited guests to linger and tables spread with trays of wine and bread to entice them to stay yet awhile longer. These were all gone now, removed one by one as the desire for fellowship dimmed, then guttered out like the cold torches set in their sconces.

A pall of age and decay draped like a discarded veil over the entire room, but it coiled most thickly around the bed and the single frail figure nestled deep in its embrace.

“I am old, J’ross. Our people die young on this new world, but even by our reckoning before The Crossing from Vulcan, I am old.”

Garamond had uttered this petulant complaint so often that the woman at his side no longer tried to frame a soothing reply. Instead, she studied the blotchy, wrinkled skin of his face with new interest; his complexion had an ominous brown tinge that had not been there yesterday. His lean, bony features had turned gaunt. She wondered if either of the chamber’s sentries had noticed the changes.

Her hand searched for the basket tucked under the bed. The contents were intact. She pulled out a small leather-bound book and turned to a marked page. “Shall I read to you this morning?”

“No, I am dying.”

He had said this before as well, day after day for the last year, but she thought that today he might be right.

There was a soft, dry rattle when he breathed that warned of lungs grown brittle overnight.

Garamond had wakened only an hour before, yet there were dark smudges beneath his eyes and their puffy lids drooped down lower and lower.

His eyes closed. He drifted off to sleep.

Laying the book facedown, J’ross carefully shifted her weight off the bed so as not to wake the old man. With expert movements born of much practice, she straightened and tucked the tangled covers. He did not stir. She picked up the book and bent down. Her hands sought out the basket again.

“Who is there?” cried out Garamond, waking suddenly. His fingers clutched fitfully at his side. “Gone! It is gone!”

“Hush, my husband. It was only hidden by the covers.” She guided his fumbling hands to the right place, then cast a glance over her shoulder to check the sentries’ reactions.

Pymer had come to immediate attention with a drawn knife balanced in his palm; he took a hesitant step forward. Deemus was less alarmed, but his hand rested on the hilt of his sheathed sword. They craned their necks to see what was happening.

“I commend your diligence.” She moved aside to give them a clear view of the bed where the old man cradled the stone in his arms. “But it was only another nightmare.”

Pymer grunted, then slumped back against the wall and began idly picking at his teeth with the blade. Deemus sighed heavily.

They were, to the best of her knowledge, loyal to Garamond, but there was far less reason to trust their loyalty to her. J’ross feared that a dying king’s young wife, no matter how beautiful, could hardly compete with Garamond’s nephew.

Taramuk’s political sway was based in part on his bloodlines, but even more on his ambitions he promised the Aegis a new purpose. Where Garamond had reduced the guard to a decorative, but essentially unnecessary, appendage to his House, Taramuk promised the soldiers global warfare, and ultimately, an empire.

All he needed was the Ko N’ya.

She moved back to Garamond’s side, anxious to quiet his mewling. Pymer was bored, and bored soldiers were too curious for comfort’s sake.

“Betrayed.” Fortunately Garamond’s voice had sunk to a whisper. “You have betrayed me.”

“No, not so.” She tucked a lock of straggling white hair back behind the elegant point of one ear. Despite his age, he had been a handsome man when they first met. “I have been true to you, Husband, in my own way.”

He fell back against the pillows, exhausted by the outburst, and the stone tumbled out of the crook of his arm. When he made no move to recover it, J’ross tucked it against his side. Then she took a soft cloth and wiped the tears that streamed down his sunken cheeks, but there was nothing she could do to ease his labored breathing or still his feebly thrashing limbs.

An hour passed, then another. She waited patiently until Garamond exhaled deeply, then stirred no more. Her fingers pressed against his wrist, searching for a pulse. There was none; he was finally at rest.

J’ross pulled the basket out from under the bed to set about her next task.

“The king is sleeping. Do not disturb him,” she commanded as she walked past the guards.

Deemus nodded; Pymer sheathed his knife and fell into step beside her. As the lady of the manor she had the right to an armed escort, but over the last year she had noted a subtle shift in the guard’s demeanor, an increased vigilance and attention to her activities. As Garamond’s health worsened, the privilege of Pymer’s company had become more difficult to decline, and the few opportunities to slip away from his supervision had been hard won. Her guard was rapidly becoming her jailer.

They proceeded to the House kitchen in silence since her past attempts to make light conversation had only rendered Pymer more surly. This failure to charm confirmed her suspicions that the Aegis soldiers were ready to transfer their loyalty to Taramuk.

“Th’a! It’s hot down here,” cried Pymer as they descended the back steps. “This is no work for a soldier.”

“The king’s chamber is cool. You could have stayed there.”

He only scowled.

No queen had set foot in the kitchens before J’ross, but then no other queen of the House had been a baker. Some of the servants admired her ascent into nobility, while others scorned her common origins; they all kept their distance when she entered their domain.

She threaded her way between bustling cooks and table servers with their trays, but the soldier was less nimble and earned several muttered curses when he blocked their path or tripped their feet.

By the time he caught up with her, J’ross had pulled a ball of dough from her basket and was pinching shut the cracks in its surface. She then placed it on a wooden paddle and shoved it inside the nearest oven.

Pymer began to sweat. “How long is this going to take?”

“Not long,” she said. “Spiced kahla doesn’t need to rise.”

His scowl etched deeper and deeper into his face as they waited, and his face had flushed a bright green from the radiant heat before she pronounced the crust to be properly browned.

“Anyone could do this,” said Pymer as they retraced their path to the king’s chamber. Irritation had loosened his tongue.

“It’s not so easy as it looks,” said J’ross. She swung the bread basket from one arm, but her free hand wiped a trickle of sweat from her brow.

Their entrance into the chamber caught the single sentry in the middle of a yawn. “The king is still sleeping.”

“I hate to wake him, but he must eat to keep up his strength.” She raised her voice as she approached the bed. “I’ve brought you fresh baked kahla, my lord. Your favorite delicacy.”

She peered down at the old man’s face.

“My lord?”

She dropped the basket and fell to her knees by his bedside. “My lord! My lord is dead!”

Her cries turned to sobs as she threw herself over the still body. She could hear the pounding of the sentries’ boots as they ran toward her.

“Move aside, woman!” commanded Deemus, shoving her away so that he could examine the king for himself. He touched the man’s face, then snatched back his hand. “Th’a! He’s already cold.”

“Then he died on your watch,” said Pymer quickly.

“Idiot, Taramuk won’t care when the old king died.” J’ross watched Deemus scrabble frantically through the bedcovers. “It’s the rock that matters now. Where is—” He spun around, sword drawn clear of its sheath by the time he faced her.

Deemus, reflected J’ross ruefully, was much brighter than Pymer.

“Drop it, m’lady, or I shall be forced to kill you.”

“Brave man, to attack the holder of the Ko N’ya.” To her relief, the soldier froze in place. “With a single tap on this stone I could burn out your heart and twist your entrails into a knot. A wave of my hand and this castle will come crashing down over your heads, plague will kill any survivors, and monsters will grow in the womb of any woman who walks over this land for the next ten generations.”

From the look of terror on his face, Pymer might have let her flee the room just to stop the stream of curses, but Deemus was almost grinning at her recitation. Almost. A sliver of uncertainty stayed his hand.

“Well said, my Queen, but I’ll let my betters judge the weight of your threats.” He edged backward toward the door. His eyes never left her or the stone she held. Pymer scurried after, and together they bolted shut the door.

She was left alone with the dead king.

J’ross calculated that a swift messenger could carry the news of Garamond’s death to his nephew in just over an hour. It should take somewhat longer for Taramuk to make the return journey from his neighboring estate. If the Aegis was on his side, they would make short work of any token opposition to the joining of the two Houses.

Her fate would be settled by dusk.

Contemplation of her own death did not frighten J’ross. She had known the risks when she married old Garamond and then bore him a child that usurped Taramuk’s position as heir; she had gambled that Garamond would live until her son was old enough to defend his reign, and she had lost.

Death was the likely forfeit for her; however, if Rume had followed instructions, her child would survive. That was a victory of sorts.

The sun was still a finger’s width from the horizon when she heard the sound of marching feet outside the chamber. There was a hasty scrape of metal against wood, then the doors burst open, shouldered apart by a force of Aegis soldiers.

As I expected.

To give him credit, Taramuk led the assault. Garamond’s nephew was broad and carried his bulky armor with ease.

Elaborate designs of beaten gold added luster to the metal breastplate. He was a warrior who planned to be an emperor.

J’ross raised the stone up above her head.

“I have powers that are greater than those naked swords.”

Taramuk merely laughed. “It takes more than a few hours to learn to wield those powers, J’ross. However, I expected some move for power on your part, so I’ve come prepared.”

He clapped his hands and a soldier stepped forward. He was carrying a small squirming bundle. As the heavy cloth fell away, J’ross heard the crying of a child. Seconds later a naked boy tumbled out onto the flagstones.

“Did you really think you could hide him away?

His wet nurse offered him to me for a single gold coin.”

“Let him go!”

“Give the Ko N’ya to me,” Taramuk said, “or the child dies.”

J’ross shook her head ever so slightly.

“Kill the king’s son and rightful heir? Not even you would dare do that.”

“Do you take me for a fool, J’ross?

Garamond was nearly three hundred years old, too old by a century to sire a son.” He prodded the trembling child with a boot. “You’ve been seen speaking to your village lover; this is the spawn of a potter, not the king’s own flesh and blood.”

“You’re wrong. The child is blood of this House, Taramuk, which makes him kin to a butcher!”

Taramuk snapped two fingers.

“No!” she cried, but it was too late to forestall his order.

The guard’s cutting slash brought forth a gout of blood from the boy’s neck; waves of bright emerald green cascaded down his chest. The child’s limp body collapsed into a crumpled heap onto the faded carpet; J’ross dropped to her knees as if felled by the same blow.

“You will be next,” said Taramuk.

Even as he spoke, J’ross had let loose the stone. It tumbled from her slack hands, rolling across the floor toward his eager, grasping reach.

She remained silently in place, head bowed, as two guards stripped her of the gown she had been wearing, their rough hands tearing away the fabric until she was naked. Her jewelry was removed with equal force, raising welts and bruises about her neck and wrists; a trickle of blood marked where an ear-gem had been wrenched free of the lobe. Even her slippers were forfeit. They could not untangle the leather ties that bound her braided hair, so the braid itself was lopped off with the same knife that had slain the boy.

When the men had finished their task, she lifted her head high, as if in anticipation of a final killing blow.

Taramuk waved back the guards. “If you were less liked, and less beautiful, I would kill you myself. Instead, I will spare your life if you return to the mud village where my uncle found you.”

“I won’t beg for mercy from you,” she said in a flat voice, “yet give me leave to take a cloak with which to cover myself and a loaf of bread to eat. To do less would shame your House. After all, I was its queen.”

“You were a better baker,” he said with a sneer, but he plucked a cloak from the back of one of his soldiers and threw it onto the floor. “Now go!”

With a clumsy bow of acquiescence, J’ross scooped up the cloak and wrapped the cloth tightly about her body and over her head. Then, taking up her bread basket, she walked past Taramuk with the same bearing and poise that once carried her across a throne room. The House guards hastily stepped back, eyes averted in acknowledgment of their betrayal. She left Garamond’s bedchamber unhindered.

The estate appeared deserted by servants and Family alike, but she sensed eyes following her stately passage through the corridors and heard whispers coming from behind closed doors. Those who would have championed her cause were dead or in hiding.

She strode faster down the halls, through doorways, under arches, over steps and out into the courtyard. From high above her, a wailing of horns announced the king’s death to the countryside.

Impatient to escape the same air that Taramuk breathed, she ran over cobblestones until she reached a dirt road, one that led to the village of her birth.

J’ross waited until the looming towers of the House had faded into the distance before she loosed the laughter welling up inside her. Her feet had grown soft over the last few years of manor house living, and they pained her already, yet she danced barefooted over the rough pebbled surface.

By the time the sun had set, she would be safely home.

“I am a better baker than you know, Taramuk the Mighty, Taramuk the Empire-Builder, Taramuk the Dead!”

The basket she carried was heavy, far heavier than a round loaf of kahla should weigh.

Tonight she and her family would feast on the thin crust of stale bread that covered the Ko N’ya baked inside. Taramuk might dine on fresh meats and wine, but it would be his last meal. The rock he carried into battle had been formed in the heat of a potter’s kiln, and a lump of fired clay would offer little protection to him or his armies.

She and Rume would live to spit on Taramuk’s grave. If even half the stories of the Ko N’ya’s powers were true, her lover would spend the rest of his days making the statues he loved; and Garamond’s infant son would grow tall and strong while the bones of that poor dead child—Taramuk’s own whelp by a cast-off mistress —turned to dust.

J’ross stopped her dance for a moment, struck by an unsettling thought. If old Garamond was to be believed, she herself had a long life waiting to be filled. Regaining possession of the House would not occupy more than a few years of that span.

What, then, was she to do for the next three hundred years? Unlike the king, she had no interest in idle pleasures of the flesh, neither did she intend to end her life alone in a dusty bedchamber.

After a moment’s thought, she had her answer.

Taramuk was treacherous and cruel, but he was not entirely a fool; neither was she too proud to learn from her enemy. She had enjoyed being queen and had run the House with admirable skill; that same talent for organization could work as well for an empire.

Perhaps she could even return the Romulan people to the stars.

J’ross resumed her dance down the path.

CHAPTER 14

“Twenty … nineteen … eighteen …”

Chief O’Brien had started the final countdown, and most of the people gathered in Ten-Forward had quickly joined him.

Geordi La Forge was not one of them.

“Look,” he said to his table companion, “if just one more starship is diverted at the last minute, they won’t meet the five-ship quorum for calling a championship match.”

“Too late,” said Worf, quaffing his prune juice in one gulp. “The USS Venture docked there an hour ago. That gives them six.”

He waved to Guinan for a refill.

“What!” cried Geordi. He had been too busy talking to take more than a few sips of his own drink. “But the Venture wasn’t even scheduled for RandRather at Luxor IV.”

“Chief Engineer Logan reported a baffle plate malfunction yesterday.”

“Yeah, right.” Finally acknowledging defeat, Geordi slumped down into his chair. “And what do you bet he has it fixed by the time the game is over?”

Worf’s glass was still empty. The Klingon raised his hand to signal again, but when he saw the number of people pressing up against the bar he decided the effort was futile.

“… fourteen … thirteen …”

William Riker sniffed at the colorful concoction that Guinan had dropped on the counter in front of him. His nose wrinkled at the burst of bubbles that rose to the surface.

“I ordered a Finnegan’s Wake,” he called out when the lounge host passed by again.

Guinan paused in mid-stride, a tray full of glasses balanced in her hands. “As far as I’m concerned, that is a Finnegan’s Wake.”

“Since when is a Finnegan’s Wake purple?”

“Since half the starship crew decided to drop by Ten-Forward this morning,” she said firmly and sped away.

“I hate bubbles.” Riker pushed aside the drink and began to toy with several stacks of colored poker chips. Even seated, he towered over the woman who was perched on the stool beside him.

“I tried to get Beverly to join us, as a member of the team,” said Deanna Troi as she dug her spoon into a mound of chocolate ice cream, “but she insisted she had too much work to do.

I suspect our CMO is brooding instead; she seems to think that everyone blames her for our diversion from Luxor IV. I wish you would talk to her.”

“I don’t know, Deanna,” said Riker with a shrug, “if it hadn’t been for Beverly—” “Will!”

“… seven … six … five …”

Having spied the first officer from across the room, Ro Laren jostled her way through the milling crowd to reach the counter. The ensign was slim and muscular and used her sharp elbows to good advantage. “Are you ready to pay up, Commander?”

Riker shook his head. “Not until the game actually—” “… one … zero!”

The room echoed with a collective groan as somewhere on Luxor IV, the first hand of the Fleet poker championship was dealt out.

Riker heaved a sigh and shoved the stacks toward the ensign. Red, blue, and green chips cascaded across the countertop. “Here’s your hundred.”

“Poker chips?”

“You never specified the exact form of payment,” he said with a perfectly sober face, but there was an undercurrent of smugness in his voice.

“So I’ve decided to pay up in chips.”

Ro called out to Guinan as she swept by.

“Can he do this?”

“What now?” asked the designated arbiter as she looked over her shoulder. Ro pointed to the chips on the countertop. “Yes, I’ll allow it as legal tender.”

“Fah!” said Ensign Ro as she scooped up the tokens, but the sight of Riker’s amusement brought a wry smile to her own face. “You’ll probably win every one of these back from me.”

Riker’s grin widened even more. “I certainly intend to try. Care to test your luck at tonight’s game?”

“No, thanks,” said the Bajoran. “I’d rather lose my money on Starbase 193.”

The first officer shook his head. “Sorry, Ensign Ro, no shore leave privileges at this port.”

“None?” Troi looked up from her dessert. “Not even for senior officers?”

“No one from this ship goes on that starbase,” said Riker. “It seems the owner of a bar called the Due or Die is some kind of black market knowledge-broker, and the captain is concerned that she’ll find a way to pump the crew for information on our current mission. Evidently, listening is her specialty.”

“What did you say?” Guinan doubled back in her tracks to confront the first officer. “What’s the name of this woman?”

“Something exotic,” said Riker, searching his memory. “The captain said it was from Greek mythology …”

“Camenae?”

“Yes, that sounds right. How did—” But Guinan had already slipped out from behind the bar and was halfway to the doors of Ten-Forward.

Picard’s desk was cluttered with piles of books, yet her eyes were drawn immediately to a dull gray rock lurking amidst the disorder. It hunched half-hidden beneath the cover of an opened volume. “Am I disturbing you, Captain?”

Laying aside the thick textbook he had been reading, Picard said, “No, Guinan, come in.” Yet she could see that his eyes were still clouded with thoughts far removed from her presence in the ready room. She remained silent and watched as his distracted gaze moved downward to the desk surface and his hand strayed out to stroke the rough surface of the rock.

Age emanated from it in waves. At times, after prolonged contact with short-lived races such as Humans, Guinan felt herself to be an old woman; this small object reminded her that she was still a child in the universe.

“That’s a very unusual paperweight.”

“What?” When Picard caught her meaning, his fist closed over the stone. Several seconds passed before he reached the decision to tell her more.

“It’s called the Devil’s Heart.”

Yes, the stone was very old indeed. “I’ve heard of it.” She had heard other names for it as well, darker names that had laced through the mythology of her homeworld. That world was gone now, and so were her people’s legends.

The stone had survived.

Picard was rubbing the bridge of his nose. She studied the cast of his shoulders, then said, “You look tired.”

“Do I? Perhaps because I haven’t been sleeping too well lately.” He took a deep breath and recovered the sharp inquisitive look that usually resided on his face. “So, Guinan, has the wake in Ten-Forward driven you to the bridge?”

“According to Commander Riker, you don’t know anything about that.”

“The innocence of the young is frightening,” said Picard with a smile. “As a newly promoted lieutenant, I lost a month’s wages betting on my ship’s crew at the same floating poker championship. All we needed were five starships in the same place, so as soon as I saw the docking roster at Luxor IV, I knew someone would call for a championship game.”

“The crew were disappointed to miss the game.”

“I knew they would be.” The captain’s expression of geniality evaporated. “But we were unavoidably delayed.” His gaze flickered briefly to the Heart, but he offered no further details of their mission. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to visit Starbase 193.”

He stared up at her for a moment, then said, “Surely you know that I’ve canceled all shore leave privileges for the crew?”

“Yes, but I’d like to go anyway.”

Picard was not given to prying into her personal affairs. He grimaced before he asked, “For what purpose?”

“I’d like to see an old … acquaintance.”

Guinan had been about to say friend, but too much time had passed for her to make that assumption.

“I see.” From the thoughtful expression on his face, she realized that he had made the connection very quickly. “Very well, Guinan. You have my permission for shore leave.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

Just as she reached the doorway of the ready room, Picard added, “When I first saw Camenae, I had the distinct feeling that we had met before. Now I realize that I was mistaken; instead, she reminded me of someone I already know.”

She smiled and slipped quietly out of the room.

As soon as he was alone again, Picard picked up the book he had been reading and resumed his study of its contents.

Surak … Ishaya … Garamond …

J’ross …

Familiar names and places met him at every turn of a page, yet the factual details of the pre-Reform era were difficult to separate from legend. Several dry accounts of Surak’s life contradicted the possibility of his stark walk through the field of dead on the plain of Ishaya, and only one of his contemporaries had recounted a version that echoed Picard’s dream of that pivotal moment in the philosopher’s life.

The confusion only deepened after the exodus from Vulcan. T’Sara’s foreword warned that her original sources for early Romulan history were impossible to confirm through other records. Those who had spurned the path of logic were the only witnesses to the taming of their new world and the building of new empires.

Picard snapped shut the book.

He had found the obvious root of his dreams.

Even though some twenty years had passed since he had last read this history text, the names must have remained nestled in his memory. Finding the Ko N’ya had triggered his imagination to embroider an unusually elaborate tapestry around them.

Dreams … they were only dreams.

When Guinan walked into the Due or Die, the Andorian bartender pointed the way to the back of the establishment. Each step she took in that direction filled her with distaste. The lighting was dim, but not dim enough to hide the scruffy floor and battered furniture; the few customers scattered here and there at tables were bent over their drinks, gazing too intently upon an inner landscape to notice her. She expected a challenge from the stocky Norsican guard at the back, but he stepped aside without comment to let her pass through a doorway.

The shadowed interior of the next room was bleak and barren. It prepared her for Camenae’s glacial expression. The woman sat motionless, with her hands folded together on the tabletop; only a flicker of Camenae’s eyes betrayed any sign of recognition. She uttered no greeting to her visitor.

“I get the feeling I was expected,” said Guinan in Federation Standard. She sat down in a chair that was uncomfortably hard, but then no one would choose to linger in this room.

“When the Enterprise docked at this starbase, I considered the possibility of your coming here.”

“Then you knew I was working on a Federation starship?”

“You’ve been with them for several years,” said Camenae. “Word gets around.”

But you didn’t call me. “I heard rumors you were off-planet when the Borg attacked, but I was never able to confirm that you were still alive. Or to find you.”

“It’s a large universe,” Camenae said in a flat voice. “We were scattered apart by the solar winds.” Then she dropped into the language of their race. “Leaves that have fallen from a tree do not attach themselves to a branch again.”

There was a vestige of lyric poetry in her words, but her verse had never dealt with images of death or decay. The woman Guinan remembered had laughed often; now Camenae’s face was carved in somber, unyielding lines.

Guinan shook her head, warding off the morbid spell cast her way. “I prefer to think of us as cuttings from a plant; we will grow tall in new soil.”

Dropping back into Federation Standard, Camenae countered, “You won’t grow at all if you continue working on a starship like the Enterprise. Wasn’t one encounter with the Borg enough? Why must you persist in confronting them over and over again?”

“Danger comes with the job.”

“And what of this visit? Is it also part of your job? Did Picard send you here to interrogate me?”

“No,” said Guinan with a weary shake of her head. “I came because I wanted to see you again.”

“How flattering.” Camenae smiled, but it was not a pleasant expression. “I’m not sure that I believe you. Your captain was curious about the murder.”

“Murder?” said Guinan. “I’ve heard about the deaths of the Vulcans on Atropos, but Picard already knows they were killed by Orion mercenaries.”

“You must not be a very good Listener. One of my operatives on this starbase was killed as well.”

Guinan shrugged away the insult. “That’s not the type of information I seek out, and the ship’s officers don’t discuss classified matters with me, just personal ones.”

“There’s no profit in mending people’s love lives.”

“Is that what you do? Listen for profit?”

“Yes,” said Camenae. “And what I hear is far more interesting than the petty problems of some homesick ensign.”

“So you do know who murdered your—” “Answering that question would betray a client confidence, a confidence I have been paid to keep.”

“Let me get this straight,” said Guinan incredulousl y. “You won’t betray the murderers and thieves who are crawling over this starbase because they paid you?”

“My business ethics are the only principles I have left. I’m loathe to give them up.”

Beneath the cynicism was a kernel of truth that saddened Guinan enough to bite back any more recriminations. Instead, she said, “Then I’d like to become one of your customers.”

Camenae laughed with genuine amusement rather than scorn. “You can’t afford me, Guinan. Not on a bartender’s wages.”

“My expenses are low; I can pay the debt off if you’ll extend me credit.”

Camenae shook her head. “Given your penchant for hazardous duty, you’re a bad risk.”

“Given how often I’ve survived, I’d say that luck is on my side, and that I’m a very sound investment.”

“You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” said Guinan.

Camenae frowned as she mulled over the request. “Very well,” she said at last, “I will take you on.” Then, with a swift and practiced motion she flipped three tokens onto the tabletop. “That’s your credit stake. You can keep asking questions until I take all the coins back.”

There were many questions Guinan wanted answered, but one above all others. “Tell me about the Heart.”

“What do you know of its history?”

“Enough,” said Guinan. “I’m more interested in current events.”

After a pause to order her thoughts, Camenae recounted what she knew of T’Sara’s ten-year quest on Atropos; then she described the Vulcan distress call that Grede had brought to her, the alterations to the message that had delayed the arrival of the Enterprise, and the frantic scramble among the Orions and Ferengi to take possession of T’Sara’s discovery.

At the conclusion of her tale, Camenae reached out one hand and picked up the first token.

“Vulcans can be such fools at times. They may lack the capacity for greed, but they should remember how many other races do not.”

“Do you know who has the Heart now?” asked Guinan.

“As fact, no,” said Camenae thoughtfully.

“But I can offer a conjecture at a very reasonable price.” Her hand hovered over the next token.

“I’ll pay you to keep that conjecture to yourself.”

The second token disappeared. “And to keep any more information you hear about the Heart out of circulation.”

“Exclusivity is hardly worth the expense at this point,” said Camenae. “The news is beyond recall and spreading quickly.”

“All I’m asking is that you don’t fan the flames any further.”

“Very well,” sighed Camenae. She swept the last token from the table. “That concludes our business for today.”

It was an abrupt dismissal, but Guinan had lost all desire to prolong their reunion.

Gathering up the skirts of her robe, she rose from the table. She said good-bye in their old tongue and waited for some response from Camenae.

“I won’t sell you information about my clients,” said the woman. “But I will offer one piece of advice as a parting gift. Beware the race called the unDiWahn. They are more dangerous than I had judged.”

After her warning, she fell silent again.

Guinan left her sitting in the darkness.

By the time the end of Sendei’s communiqu`e had scrolled across the screen of Picard’s desk terminal, the captain was battling down a substantial tide of anger.

According to Sendei’s instructions, the bodies of the archaeologists and the items salvaged from the encampment were to be shipped to the Science Academy. The director himself would then supervise the distribution of personal effects to the heirs; all of T’Sara’s property, consisting of the research equipment and the excavated artifacts, had been willed to the Academy itself.

Sendei claimed the Heart as part of that bequest.

Yet the director did not acknowledge the discovery of the Ko N’ya. His brief reference implied the stone was merely a curiosity crafted by the original artisans of the Atropos colony.

“In the absence of medical validation by Vulcan physicians, I consider it prudent to accept Sorren’s diagnosis of Bendii’s syndrome. Unfortunately, the relic you recovered from the Ferengi provided T’Sara with a focus for her delusions.”

With typical Vulcan condescension, that one paragraph summarily discounted Doctor Crusher’s medical evaluations and Picard’s scientific assessment of the stone’s origins.

Worse yet, Sendei dismissed T’Sara’s achievement as the product of madness. Given that interpretation, he expected the Heart to be packed into a cargo container along with the rest of the shipment and shuttled from the Enterprise to any freighter on its way toward Vulcan.

Picard’s every instinct argued against this prosaic conclusion to the starship’s mission to Atropos and such a casual disposal of the Ko N’ya and T’Sara’s remains.

No, I will not do this.

The captain cleared the screen of text and began to draft yet another communiqu`e to Admiral Matasu. Sendei’s position at the Academy had gained him prominence in Starfleet circles; but Picard was not without influence of his own, and he intended to take full advantage of it now.

“No, I’m not much of a tea drinker,” said Guinan, waving away the steaming cup.

“Take it anyway,” said the captain. “I find that just the act of holding a cup of Earl Grey has great therapeutic value.”

She couldn’t help but smile.

Picard settled down beside her on the sofa, and they sipped the hot tea in silence. Guinan had never lingered in the ready room before; she had always thought of it as Picard’s office, a place of business, but now she realized that it could also serve as a safe harbor from turmoil. The window behind the captain’s desk offered a miniature version of the panoramic view in Ten-Forward, and for a while Guinan loosed her mind to wander idly from one star to another. The plush sofa eased the tension in her body, and Picard’s undemanding companionship eased other deeper and less obvious aches.

“She’s not the first to change so drastically from the person I knew before,” said Guinan at last.

“It affects some of my people that way. The loss of our families, our world, everything that we were, is simply too great a pain to bear. A part of them withers away, and they turn dry and bitter.”

“You, however,” said Picard softly, “chose to embrace life.”

“That’s my way of honoring the dead … perhaps even of mourning for them.”

She had been born to a race of Listeners and had spent centuries honing her skills, but right now she needed someone to listen to her. Picard sat quietly as she recalled memories of Camenae as a girl, then as a young woman maturing into an accomplished poet, andofa friendship that had seemed strong enough to last a lifetime.

And then Guinan told him of Camenae’s warning.

Picard set down his cup and moved to the ready room desk. Picking up the Heart, he said, “I welcome the information, but I don’t think there is any need for concern about these unDiWahn.

We’ll be leaving Starbase 193, and this sector, very soon.”

“You’ve received new mission orders?”

“No, I’ve requested permission to divert the Enterprise to Vulcan.” He seemed to be speaking to the Heart when he said, “We’re taking T’Sara home.”

CHAPTER 15

DaiMon Tork twirled the heavy ring on the third finger of his left hand as he calculated its worth and what percentage of that figure he could actually obtain for it at the open bazaar.

Not enough.

A cut-rate sale of his entire payload had just managed to pay off his portion of the consortium debt, but he had been left without sufficient funds to continue docking his Marauder at Starbase 193. The last of his fuel had brought him to Smelter’s Hold, only to find that the news of Maarc’s debacle had preceded him. No one was willing to extend him credit to purchase new stock, for nothing scared away old associates so fast as financial failure.

Cursed be the day that Maarc had drawn him into that transaction with Camenae!

“You eat too much of my food,” Tork said, lashing out at his first officer. Kazago was perched on a pile of boxes containing the last of their personal possessions and some items too worthless to be sold. He was crunching his way through one of the ration packets they had scrounged from the ship’s emergency stores.

“It’s not as if I like this food,” said Kazago with sullen impertinence. “But you haven’t paid me any wages for a month, DaiMon, so I can’t afford to buy anything else to eat.” He resumed his crunching.

“Enough of your complaints. I’ll think of something; I always do.”

Tork peered out the grimy window of the stockroom. Now he was in debt for a day’s rental of this space, and the means of paying off even that pittance had eluded him so far; however, the bazaar down below was filled with customers spending money. There must be a way to siphon some of those funds back into his own coffers.

That was when he saw them two Vulcans walking side by side down an aisle sporting used engineering parts. Traders by the look of them.

Vulcans usually stayed within the boundaries of Federation space, but this pair probably had been detoured to the Hold by an engine malfunction.

Even before Tork had formulated a plan, his instincts had centered on them as an essential element to recouping his fortune.

A scheme began to gel in his mind.

“Did we sell that universal text translator?” Tork asked his first officer.

“No, DaiMon.”

The details clicked into place. It was, he concluded, a workable plan. Best of all, if it failed with the Vulcans, he could rework it to use on another alien race.

“If you ever hope to receive your wages, Kazago, keep those two Vulcans in sight and guard them from the crooks and thieves on this outpost. They’re our prey.”

Throwing aside his half-eaten food packet, Kazago raced out of the room; Tork pulled out the translator and a wri ting padd and began to compose a letter.

Ten minutes later, the DaiMon had finished constructing his first prop; the other he already had in inventory. He ripped the printout from the padd and scurried down the staircase to the bazaar.

Kazago was hovering nearby and pointed Tork in the right direction. To his relief, the Vulcans had drifted even closer to his stall.

“You! Vulcans! I would speak with you.”

“As you wish,” said one, and they both came to a halt. Their unadorned tunics reeked of spice and grain.

“Vulcans are honorable, that is what I have always been told. So, like a fool, I believed this myth; I trusted a Vulcan when I wouldn’t trust my own grandmother. But one of your kind has tried to dupe me! He owes me a king’s ransom and paid for it with a worthless bauble.”

“What is this to do with us?”

They had listened to his ranting with more patience and civility than he had dared hope, but it was time to present the bait and see if they were hungry.

“This note,” he shook the printout in their faces, “supposedly explains his perfidy, but it is written in Vulcan!”

“I see,” said the taller one with a solemn nod. “You have need of a translation.”

“Brilliant deduction,” exclaimed Tork with an acid sneer. “Your rapier mind should bring you much wealth and happiness.” In his experience, sarcasm and verbal abuse disarmed suspicion by misdirection watch my temper, not your purse.

He shoved the flimsy into the hands of Short Trader. “Tell me! What do those ridiculous squiggles mean?”

The two bent their heads together and scanned the text. After an exchange of veiled glances, Short Trader spoke.

“It is addressed to DaiMon Tork. “I lack the funds to honor my debt at this time, so I have sent a family heirloom as a bond of my good faith. The item itself has little value, but my family holds it in great esteem.” It is signed by one named Suprell.”

Got them! exulted Tork to himself. The message he had forged clearly stated that the debt was paid in full with the Ko N’ya. So, as he suspected, even Vulcans had their price; everyone did.

“What am I to do?” Tork stormed, presenting his marks with the opportunity to take advantage of him. “I need funds, not promises.”

“You have not been misled, DaiMon,” said Tall Trader. “We Vulcans are an honorable race, as I will prove to you.

Suprell’s family is known to me, and I will redeem the heirloom and assume his debt.”

“Excellent!” Tork beamed happily. For all their much vaunted intelligence, Vulcans were an absurdly naive race when it came to practical matters. He would have to pursue more business transactions with them in the future.

“Come this way, come this way, so that we can arrange this matter in private.”

He grabbed the sleeve of the nearest trader and led them both through the crowds and up the narrow staircase to the rented stockroom. The soft snick of the door closing behind them was like the teeth of a trap snapping shut.

After throwing off the boxes that covered a large chest, the DaiMon made a great show of fussing with the lock and then rummaging through the jumbled contents.

His hands closed around a large round shape.

“Ah, here it is!”

When Tork turned around with the synthetic gem in his hands, he immediately realized his mistake.

Vulcans did not smile, yet both of these men were smiling broadly. Then Tork saw the Romulan-issue disrupters they were slipping out from behind their cloaks.

Their trap, not mine.

The house in the Old Quarter was still standing after five centuries, proof of the skill of the architect who had designed its massive chambers and sprawling wings. In the beginning it had been grandly furnished, but each succeeding generation had stripped away its treasures room by room to slow the pace of their slide down into poverty.

Eventually, all that remained of past glory and past wealth was the house itself.

Tonight a young warrior strode through the cold, empty halls. Despite the reversal of his family’s fortune, he carried his wiry frame with a strutting arrogance that was the equal of any Klingon on the planet of Kronos. Passing by the foot of a wide spiraling staircase, he ducked down a shadowed corridor that led to the warmth and light of the servant’s hall.

The last servant had left long ago; the old man who waited for him inside was the master of the house. Kruger sat hunched over a low trestle table, too absorbed in his dinner to look up at the sound of the opening door.

“She’s dead,” announced the warrior.

There could be only one “she.”

The old man tore another mouthful of meat from the joint of beast. He chewed. He spat a piece of gristle onto the bare floor.

“Fifty years ago I would have cared.”

Kruger’s grandson sat down at the table, but he did not pluck any food from the platter.

There was little to spare, and he would eat better fare elsewhere at the expense of wealthy sycophants in awe of his ancient lineage. “According to security reports circulating in high Federation circles, she was killed by Orion smugglers.”

“Did you learn this from your cousin?” Kruger spat out the last word with even greater distaste than he had the gristle.

“Grandfather, Ambassador Nedec has access to classified documents, and according to those documents—” “Nedec is a toady to that upstart Gowron,” shouted the old man. “Nedec throws you favors like scraps to a targ. You, who should be .his emperor!”

He threw the chewed bone onto the floor. “After my death, of course.”

“According to those documents,” persisted Kruger’s heir, “the Ferengi were also involved with T’Sara’s death.”

“Meddlesome Vulcan crone! Your father was a fool to talk to her, revealing what should only be known to the Family.”

The young man shouted back into his face.

“You’re the fool!” His impudence won a moment of silence and his grandfather’s undivided attention.

“Don’t you see? She found something, something that both the Orions and the Ferengi wanted. Something that the Enterprise is carrying back to Vulcan.”

“The Pagrashtak?”

“Yes, Grandfather. I think it must be.”

Kruger took a swig from a tankard of ale.

His close-set eyes were slitted in thought. “So, perhaps your father was not so much the fool as I believed.”

“I think not. After all, she kept her word and did not publish the account of Kessec’s disgrace in her texts. Instead, it seems she used the knowledge of his actions to trace the path of the Pagrashtak.”

“Our Pagrashtak,” said Kruger firmly.

“Yes, Grandfather. I will see to that personally.”

Diat Manja wept at the news of T’Sara’s death.

Nearly sixty years had passed since she had last set foot in this room, yet there were reminders of her presence everywhere he looked.

Her textbooks and monographs were scattered throughout his bookshelves, along with bound volumes of their correspondence. She had sat for hours in this carved wood chair beside his desk, leafing through his translations; at other times she had nestled in the deep bay window to soak up the warmth of the sun as she read. He could open any of those manuscripts and find her scribbled notes in the margin of a page.

So few of the Iconian Dream texts had survived from ancient times; if there had been more, perhaps she would have stayed longer.

Most Dynasians on campus had been vaguely repulsed by the offworlder with an unadorned forehead and pale green skin, so young Diat had been the only scholar in his department who volunteered to help with her research. Unlike the others, he had been moved by her intensity of purpose and her complete disinterest in the opinion others held of her; both were qualities that he lacked.

His hands reached for the tails of the tattered scarf draped around his neck, and his fingers stroked the rough weave as if caressing the face of a lover. The scarf was made of a sturdy Vulcan fabric, and T’Sara had worn it throughout her visit because even during a heat wave the Dynasian summer was colder than Vulcan’s winter. For years Manja had wondered if she left it behind by accident or by design. Vulcans were unsentimental by nature, yet she had fathomed the emotions of the beings in a multitude of cultures; and if she had suspected his love for her, then she had saved a poor young professor from humiliation by tactfully ignoring that fact.

After her departure from Dynasia, he had worshiped her from afar and taken what comfort he could from the letters they exchanged. Some would consider that meager fare, yet this meeting of minds exceeded any pleasure he had ever found in the arms of his consort.

Now there would be no more letters.

Three days ago he had sent an urgent message to T’Sara telling her of a lost Iconian scroll that had been discovered in the archival vaults of the Flight Engineering library. The star map had been improperly cataloged as a technology-related text until one of Manja’s former students stumbled upon it and recognized it as part of the Dream series he had studied in a literature class.

However, T’Sara had already died before the news reached her, and one of her colleagues had answered instead.

The professor reached for the crumbled communiqu`e that had arrived just an hour ago and smoothed out the creases. Through eyes still fogged by tears, Manja read the short message one more time. Like a typical Vulcan, Sendei had reported the tragedy in terse, dry language; yet, upon this second reading, Manja realized the double tragedy in the scientist’s account of T’Sara’s death.

The members of the Vulcan Science Academy did not even recognize T’Sara’s greatest achievement! The director believed she had died in the first stages of madness.

“No!” cried out Diat Manja. “They must honor her success. After a century of searching, she found the Ko N’ya, the Gem of Ancient Iconia. I will see to it that the entire Federation learns the trtth of her discovery!”

Then he slumped back into his chair, his skin flushing to an indigo hue from embarrassment at his outburst.

How could he possibly keep this vow? He was a tired, old man with no influence, even on Dynasia. Professors of ancient literature were held in low esteem on a world that hungered for technological sophistication.

Besides, T’Sara herself would have cared little about her reputation.

Yet she had always championed the quest for truth.

Diat Manja took up a pen from his desktop. It was the only weapon he could wield, so he would have to wage this campaign with words.

There was one person on Dynasia who might have the power to call attention to this issue, one who was in constant communication with members of the Federation Council; and while Manja had no influence with the warden, one of Manja’s former students was now the man’s secretary. Ganin would see to it that Warden Chandat read this letter, and then surely Chandat would see to it that justice was done.

Manja began to write.

CHAPTER 16

A cushioned sofa was positioned only a few steps away from his desk, but Picard had waited too long to seek out its comforts. Sleep, held at bay for hours, suddenly swept over him, robbing him of the strength or desire to move.

The book he had been reading fell from numbed fingers onto the desktop. Shoving the volume to one side, he dropped his head down into the cradle of his arms and released his hold on consciousness.

The sound of the captain’s breathing could barely be heard, and his body moved imperceptibly with the steady rise and fall of his chest. The fingers of one hand twitched until they brushed against the rough surface of the Heart, then they stilled their movement.

As time passed, overhead lights dimmed automatically, tricked into quiescence by the still silence of the room. In the darkness, the gray rock came to life with an inner glow that dipped and flickered like the flame of a candle.

The man’s lips began to move, framing alien words.

“This one is …”

“… is dead,” said Telev automatically, yet when he looked up there was no one to hear his pronouncement.

The nearest aide was at the far end of the ward passing out bowls of soup to those strong enough to feed themselves. If there was time, and food enough to go around, she would try to help the weaker ones eat. The woman stopped ladling for a moment, wracked by a chesty cough, and Telev suspected that before too long he would find her lying on one of the cots herself. He only hoped there would be someone left to bring her food by then.

The healer turned back to the dead man. A cursory search of the body confirmed that it carried no identification beyond a clan scarf.

Telev studied the vaguely familiar pattern, but his mind was so numbed with fatigue that the answer was slow in coming.

Ah, yes, Assan.

There had been three family members attending an Assan in the ward just last week … weavers by trade … too poor to leave the city, but not too poor to pay for hospice treatment. Telev took a closer look at the puffy face of the man and recognized him as one of those three. So there were probably no Assan left alive or they would be here at this bedside.

Telev draped the scarf over the young man’s throat. Eventually someone would come along and haul the body outside for the next passing death cart.

They rumbled through the streets at all hours now, piled high with corpses, carrying their load to the funeral kilns that burned day and night to keep up with the victims of the Scourge.

Telev moved on to the next bed, where two sleeping children were huddled together as if for warmth.

Chills and a creeping cold over the extremities were the first sign of the pestilence, but perhaps they only sought the comfort of each other’s embrace. He listened to the steady sound of their intertwined breathing and was relieved that their lungs were still clear; their skin was still a pale blue, free of any mottled dark patches. By all rights, they were too well to merit space in the hospice, and the continued confinement put them at risk of contracting the Scourge, but as orphans he feared they would roam the streets of Andor until they starved or fell ill. There were more ways to die than from pestilence.

The condition of the last patient on the row was not so promising. The healer had known Evalla since childhood, had watched a quicksilver girl grow into a graceful young woman who had danced the sissalya cycles at the last fall solstice. Now, however, her white hair had turned as yellow as a grandmother’s and her once agile frame was stiff and bloated. Telev perched on the edge of her cot to examine her more closely. Air whistled in and out of her jointed antennae, an indication of their inflamed interior; her complexion had deepened to purple.

“She won’t eat,” said Shaav, the woman’s consort. He held a half-eaten chunk of bread and carefully picked at the scattered crumbs that had fallen from her mouth onto the bed.

“It hurts to swallow,” she said, gasping for breath. “I’ve gotten worse, haven’t I?”

“Yes, quite a bit worse.” Telev knew of several herbs that could at least ease her pain, but he had used up the last of them long ago, and there was no one left in the hospice who had time to search the countryside for more or even possessed the knowledge of where to find them.

“Am I dying?”

“Yes.” In the beginning, Telev had offered hope to any who needed it. False hope. Most of the patients had died, as had those who mourned them. He had no strength left for telling untruths.

Evalla managed a weak smile. “I haven’t paid my reckoning, Healer.”

“You’re in luck. Our collector is out sick today.”

Shaav did not react to their words; he was too intent on salvaging crumbs. He had keened loudly when his mother died last month and railed at the death of his young sister soon after, then watched in silence as his father, two brothers, and a cousin were carried to the kilns in rapid succession. He took meticulous care of his sworn consort, but he talked very little these days.

As Telev rose back to his feet, an old woman scurried down the central aisle of the ward. She spotted him immediately, the only standing figure in a sea of recumbent forms.

“I need a bed for my son,” she demanded in a voice that was loud enough to rise above the moans and cries of the sick.

The healer pointed toward the dead Assan.

True, there would be no time to change the laying cloths, but then Telev doubted there were any clean ones to be had. “If you dispose of the former occupant, that place is yours.”

“Fair trade,” she said with satisfaction, and scurried away to summon assistance in the chore.

A new patient.

And when he was done with this one, there would be another one, and yet another after that as the dead were carried away and the dying took their place. So much to be done but so little that he could do.

Telev fled the ward.

All available rooms, even those that had once served as studies and bedrooms for the healers, had been turned over to the care of the sick. Nonetheless, he had managed to keep one small closet reserved for his own use as a refuge. There was just enough space for a narrow cot, but he had given that up yesterday, along with the last of his extra shirts. All that remained was a hard pallet on the floor. The supplies that had been stored here were also gone.

Except for a canister of talla bark. It had no medicinal value and normally just was used to fill the stomach before a purge, nonetheless he still experienced a sharp pang of guilt for hoarding it away from others.

Telev opened the canister and measured out a small quantity of the dry flakes into the cup of steaming water he had snatched off a passing soup wagon. After a minute of steeping, too impatient to wait any longer, he eagerly sipped the hot brew.

Ah, that brings warmth back to my chilled …

Yes, his hands were cold and the air, so balmy for the last few weeks, seemed unusually biting tonight.

So be it. Even healers must die.

He took another gulp of the bark potion. It was a poor substitute for tea, but it was the only indulgence left to him. If only this were srjula that he held in his hands, but the wealthy merchants had fled the city at the first news of the spreading plague. If there was any tea left in Andor, it was locked in warehouses awaiting the return of owners and customers with the money to pay for their merchandise.

I’ll probably never taste srjula again.

A small window in the outside wall of the closet afforded a view of the city below, bathed in the orange light of the setting sun. He leaned his forehead against the glass and searched for signs of life people walking in the streets, lights springing up in houses, or even just the flutter of newly washed clothes hanging out to dry. Here and there he caught some reassuring indication that survivors endured, but they were very few in a city that once held a half million inhabitants.

He scanned the horizon as well, looking for the trails of smoke that had curled around the mountaintops for the past few days, but they seemed to have finally dissipated. Rumors of vast fires beyond the ridge were impossible to confirm.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The rapping on the door was soft with apology.

Telev crossed the room in two steps and peered out into the corridor. “What is it, Sathev?” The aide had been a patient, one of the few to recover from the Scourge, but his face had been so badly scarred by his illness that he had chosen to stay in the hospice.

“There’s someone at the south door asking to see the healer in charge of n ew admissions.”

Telev laughed at the absurdity of such a formal request. Admissions procedures had collapsed when the healers themselves began to sicken and die.

“Well, I tried to explain how it is,” said Sathev wearily. “But she was very insistent.”

“Do not bother yourself further. I shall deal with it.”

Some people, reflected Telev as he shuffled his way to the portal, had a remarkable ability to deny reality. The world they had all known was rotting away, yet they clung stubbornly to the old ways.

A woman and two men were waiting for him at the south entrance. At their feet lay a body wrapped in stained laying cloths; he would have mistaken the unmoving bundle for a corpse if not for the sound of a muffled groan.

“I am Viloff,” said the woman, and lifted a lantern up to show her face. She was dressed in a nondescript tunic made from the sturdy cloth favored by the craft-trades, but her bearing was not that of a common worker; rather she held herself alert and erect, with one arm swung loosely by her side where it could reach up to her belt knife.

“We need a room for our friend. He is very ill.”

“We have no rooms, but in an hour or so we may have a cot.”

“That will not do. He needs privacy. Now.”

He saw her weight shift ever so slightly as her hand fluttered upward toward the weapon.

“You can gut me here on the steps, but that will not gain you any space inside; it will simply make a mess.”

“Enough!” she said. “Take me to your superior.”

That placed her and her silent companions without question.

“What is your rank, Viloff?” asked the healer.

“You see too much, old man.”

“And you are a foolish young woman, even if you are a soldier.” Telev rubbed his hands to ease the stiffness in his finger joints. “There are no other healers. I am the last one.”

“The last one …” she echoed. Her bravado collapsed like a leaking water-skin. “I was Subcommander Viloff last week, but for all I know now, I could be a battalion admiral. The plague hit the camps last month, and then there was an attack … we’ve traveled for two days without seeing another officer.”

“Bring your friend into the wards,” said Telev, impatient to escape the cold air. “I will care for him.”

Viloff shook her head, danced a few steps of indecision, then grabbed his sleeve, dragging him over to the bundle. Bending down, she drew aside a fold of cloth.

Telev saw enough in the circle of lantern light to grant her demand.

“You can use my room,” he said, beckoning them inside the hospice.

Viloff’s two subordinates hoisted up the awkward bundle, ignoring a new spate of groans that issued forth, and followed the healer to the closet. There wasn’t enough room for the entire group, but the men seemed eager to leave the matter to their commander; they stepped back into the corridor and stood like sentinels on either side of the door.

Viloff set the lamp on a high shelf.

Telev crouched down by the pallet andwitha trembling hand pulled away the rough covers. He had taken the damp patches for blood until he saw their deep green color.

“Where did you find …” He had no words to describe what lay before him.

“We were attacked,” said Viloff. “In flying ships that rival anything to be found on Andor. Our offensive weapons had no effect on them; in a matter of hours they laid waste to our forces in the western province. Then, as if by a miracle, their defensive shields seemed to collapse and one by one we were able to pick them off. I searched the wreckage, but this was the only survivor.”

By now, the healer had completely unwrapped the alien creature. Even without a healthy specimen for comparison, it was obvious that its legs were broken; the skin covering its midsection was lacerated, the underlying muscles and organs torn and bleeding; scrapes and bruises covered the rest of its torso and arms.

“Ugly creatures, aren’t they?” said Viloff. “The others, the dead ones, looked like this, too.”

“I strive to find beauty in all living beings.” Although in this case, Telev admitted to himself, he would have to try very hard. Even if one could overlook the peculiar dark hair and olive skin color, the alien’s jutting forehead and atrophied auditory organs were quite disconcerting.

Its naked body, when compared to that of an Andorian, was thick-framed and squat; and the sexual organs, if that was indeed their purpose, were in an absurdly vulnerable location.

“I am the Emperor Vitellius!”

Telev twitched and rotated his antennae away from the sound. The alien’s voice was uncomfortably loud, and the strange language was hardened by a clipped accent and too many consonants.

“I shall lead the Romulan people to victory.”

The alien’s limbs trembled, but it was too weak to even raise itself. Telev noted that its eyes were not focused, and it had not reacted to their presence. In an Andorian, these symptoms would accompany eadiliac failure, but this species probably did not even possess an eadilium.

“You will surrender to me or die!” The raving and shouting were incomprehensible.

He guessed that the alien had lost a considerable quantity of the green liquid, but the healer couldn’t replace the volume. The standard treatment of an infusion of water might kill rather than cure.

“There’s nothing I, or any healer, can do for this creature. It will die before I’ve learned enough about its biology to treat it.”

“Too bad,” said Viloff. “There is much we need to know about our new enemies.”

Telev knelt closer to continue his examination.

With a start, he realized that the creature was finally making eye contact.

“Let me go! I command you, let me go!”

Its hands were clutching at its side, digging in the rumpled laying cloth. Viloff explained the action with a rather apologetic sigh. “It carries some sort of talisman, a clan token perhaps, harmless. We tried to remove the thing when the alien was first found, but it held fast and wouldn’t let go. Of course, it was stronger then.”

“You must obey me, or the Ko N’ya will destroy you.”

The alien suddenly lifted up a gray stone and shook it at them. It was an impressive display of strength for a being so near death.

“Surrender! I cannot be defeated.”

The effort was short-lived; the creature collapsed back onto the bed as if drained of all strength.

“I am … the Emperor …”

The alien’s voice dropped to a weak whisper, and it shut its peculiar dark eyes. Pressing a finger against the short neck, Telev monitored the fluttering pulse and wondered whether the rate was too high or too low, and what he could do about it even if he knew the answer.

The fluttering stopped altogether.

“It’s dead,” said Telev. All that remained of this strange being was the simple relic it had carried from its distant homeworld. Curious, Telev plucked the object from the alien’s slack hands. “A superstitious race,” mused the healer as he examined the rough stone. It was warm, apparently heated by the fevered body of its owner.

“We shall have to carry the body to the kilns ourselves,” said Viloff. She stepped to the door and ordered the men to the task.

“Skae!” cursed one of the soldiers as they roughly bound up the corpse again. “I still reek of its gore.”

“Forget what you’ve seen here tonight, Healer,” said the commander. “Andor has enough worries of its own.”

“Who would believe me?” He held up the stone. “What of this?”

But the soldiers were already gone, faded into the shadows of the night. The only proof of their brief visit was the ruined pallet on the floor.

And the stone.

It was still warm, easing the painful throbbing in his hands, and in the darkness its dull surface seemed to glitter and sparkle. So this and the cold cup of tea were his only remaining comforts, yet they were like a bounty of riches in the midst of devastation.

Tucking the alien talisman in the crook of his arm, Telev carried the canister of talla with him to the wards. Sathev was able to steep five cups of weak tea from the contents and pass them around to the few patients who were still awake. A soft word, a gentle caress, these were the only weapons Telev had left to fight the ravages of plague, but he gave these away to all, even those who slept through his visitation.

By the time he had finished his rounds of the hospice, he was overcome with such a deep weariness that he could not go one step farther, but sank down onto the flagstone floor and curled around the fiery glow of the stone. He felt as if all his strength, all his life, was seeping away.

Must the knot untie so soon?

As he waited for the final dissolution of his bond with the world, Telev heard the sound of laughter and the skipping steps of children running. He knew without seeing that all who had lain dying were now risen from their beds; that Evalla was dancing through the corridors, and Shaav was singing a triumphant ballad about her miraculous recovery; that Sathev was weeping at the feel of smooth skin on his face, and Avae had stopped coughing.

I seem to have borrowed a little luck from the stars.

If his life had blazed to its end that much sooner as a result of the talisman’s powers, it was still a fair trade. He was a healer, after all.

Eager hands reached out to pull him into the circle of celebration, but he slipped away before they could touch him.

CHAPTER 17

The yellow DiWahn sun had not risen above the horizon, but King Akhanatos was already awake when a court aide sidled into his bedchamber.

“Your Highness, a visitor to the palace desires a private audience with you.” Before Akhanatos could dismiss the request, the aide added, “He is unDiWahn.”

The king quickly nodded assent, and the servant scurried out of the room. The curtains of the doorway had ba rely stopped swinging from his passage when a stranger stepped back through the entrance. The heavy cowl that covered his head cast a shadow on his face, but Akhanatos recognized the stately bearing of Master Kierad@an.

The king rose from his couch to greet the robed emissary. Tradition reserved this gesture of respect for the landed nobility. As one of the stateless unDiWahn, this man owned no territories, but he was the leader of the Faithful and thus as powerful as any king.

“Well met, Akhanatos,” said the unDiWahn. With the arrogance typical of his fellows, he did not bow, nor did he address Akhanatos by any of his honorifics.

“You honor me with your presence.” The king was relieved that they were alone so none of his other subjects would witness his meek acceptance of this disrespect. He owed the order too great a financial debt to act on his displeasure now, but he noted the incident for retribution at some later date.

“I bring you word from Admiral Jakat.”

Upon hearing that name, Akhanatos felt his first tremor of suspicion. “What do you mean? My fleet admiral speaks directly to me.”

“No longer.” Kierad@an spread wide his arms as if to welcome someone into his embrace.

“Jakat’s true name is Daramad@an. He belongs to the Order of the Faithful and serves only the memory of our Iconian ancestors.”

“Do not play games with me, unDiWahn!”

Akhanatos was beyond hiding his alarm. “On this morning of all mornings, I have no patience for your mystic intrigues.”

“Ah, yes. Today you were to launch your offensive against the Kingdom of Roshamel.”

His impulse to deny the truth collided with his fear of having been discovered. Choked into silence, Akhanatos listened aghast as the unDiWahn outlined the assault plans that the king had delivered in person to Jakat three nights before.

“If you may remember,” continued Kierad@an, “your agreement with my order was that the ships would be used for peace, not war. The Iconian lore in our stewardship is preserved for the benefit of all of DiWahn, not the advancement of one of its petty fiefdoms. You have broken that covenant and betrayed our laws.”

“You want peace?” said Akhanatos, recovering his pride and his tongue. “Only the unDiWahn can afford that dream. I paid a heavy price for your holy knowledge, and I paid even more for the construction of the fleet itself. Did you really think I would bankrupt my coffers to benefit my enemies?”

“No,” the master said with an enigmatic smile, “you have acted just as we expected. Thus, as a penalty for your transgressions against the Faithful, we claim possession of the fruit which was born of our knowledge.”

“So, you are turning my own troops against me.” Akhanatos finally fathomed the bitter depths of his gullibility. First they had led him into ruinous debt; now they were taking away the means for recouping his fortunes in war; and finally they would grind his kingdom into dust with his own weapons.

To the king’s surprise, Kierad@an shook his head. “Jakat is no traitor, and we have no interest in taking your territory from you. Instead, the admiral is preparing to pursue a mission of our choosing. If you are still here upon the fleet’s return, we will meet again to discuss the terms of its future use.”

“If I am still …” The question faded as Akhanatos answered it for himself.

Of course, once Roshamel learned of the fleet’s departure, he would attack while Akhanatos was vulnerable. Both of their ground troops were roughly equivalent in strength, which meant any victory would be hard won. The surviving kingdom would be forced to deal with the unDiWahn from a position of weakness.

“I can still best you in this game.” Akhanatos sneered in the master’s face to show his disdain for the order’s devious political strategies.

“Be forewarned. If I make peace with Roshamel, both our kingdoms will thrive.”

“We would applaud such a rational action, King Akhanatos,” said Kierad@an. “May your opponents always match you in wisdom.”

After honoring the king with a low bow of respect, the unDiWahn emissary turned and swept out of the chamber.

To Kanda Jiak’s relief, Davenport Terminal was smaller than Starbase 75 and far less crowded. After winding his way out of the docking bays, he found that a single dome contained all the passenger operations.

Stepping up to a ticket counter, the Iconian shoved his identity chip into a scan slot. “I’d like to purchase a one-way passage to DiWahn.”

“DiWahn!” The Benzite clerk uttered a barking laugh. He ejected the chip and shoved it back at Jiak. “Out of the question. Even under the best of circumstances, DiWahn is off-limits to unauthorized Federation citizens.

The entire planet is politically unstable.”

“But I—” “And the best of circumstances no longer exist,” said the clerk. He sniffed loudly, inhaling the vapors of the atmospheric inhaler suspended under his chin.

“But I—” “All traffic into and out of the system has been suspended indefinitely. If we had a diplomatic relationship with the planet, which we do not, it would have been severed this morning.”

“This morning?” asked Jiak, dismayed to have missed his opportunity by such a slim margin.

“What happened this morning?”

“That is none of your concern,” snapped the Benzite. He waved aside the vapors from his face and peered at the young man’s face. “According to your bio credentials, you are a resident of Redifer III … but you bear a passing resemblance to a DiWahn native.”

“I do?” cried Jiak. In his excitement, he paid no attention to the figure that had moved up beside him.

“Yes, quite a resemblance,” repeated the clerk, and Jiak belatedly recognized the man’s suspicion.

“It’s just a coincidence,” said Del sternly.

The freighter captain shoved herself between Jiak and the counter. “Come on, Kanda. You’ve overstayed your welcome. This clerk has other customers in need of his attention.”

“Indeed I do!” said the Benzite. Like most of his race, he disliked having his bureaucratic routine disrupted.

Del clamped her hand around Jiak’s upper arm and jerked him away.

“Let me go.” She had no business trailing after him, thought Jiak angrily. He was not some orphaned child in need of a guardian angel. “I can take care of myself.”

“Quiet down,” the captain muttered under her breath, “or you’ll end up in a detention cell.”

Her warning stopped him from crying out again, but he still struggled against her iron grip. Not that it did him any good. Del had dragged him to the other side of the Davenport terminal before Jiak managed to free himself.

“I’m still shorthanded on the Haverford,” said the captain. “I could use you on my next tour.”

Jiak rubbed gingerly at the sore muscles of his arm. His disappointment at being shut out of DiWahn hurt much more. “This was just my first stop.

I’m going to Dynasia next.”

“What! That godforsaken place is a trillion light years away from here.”

Despite her exaggeration of the distance involved, Del jabbed her hand to a specific spot just to the left of his head. Jiak had no doubt that Dynasia could be found by traveling beyond the tip of her finger; the freighter captain had an uncanny memory for all the backroad planets in the galaxy.

“I don’t care how far away it is,” he said sullenly. “That’s where I’m going next.”

“Then you haven’t got the brains of a Meegan glowworm.” When he remained silent, she heaved a deep sigh. “The Marshall is docked in Bay 3. Find First Officer Conrad, and tell him I sent you. His freight run will get you to Hayhurst Junction, which is the closest Federation outpost to Dynasia. After that, you’re on your own again.”

Jiak’s face flushed with shame at having resented her interference. “Thanks, Captain.”

“Only members of my crew call me captain,” said the woman. “My friends call me Del.” She wrapped the boy in her arms, squeezed the air out of his lungs with the strength of her hug, then stalked away without a backward glance.

Thanks, Del.

He almost changed his mind and ran after her, but the impulse faded with the thought of setting foot on Dynasia. Eager to secure his next berth, Jiak settled his pack securely on his shoulders and headed back toward the docking bays.

CHAPTER 18

“Engage.”

In Riker’s mind, that simple word was inextricably intertwined with the basso pulse of the starship engines and a dazzling starburst of warp light on the viewscreen. A feeling of suppressed excitement was underscored by Picard’s crisp declamation; he never issued that order in an offhand manner.

“At current warp speed,” announced Data, “our estimated arrival at Vulcan will be in three point six days.”

Picard never even slouched when he occupied the captain’s chair. At his most relaxed, he might cross his legs and lean back. Today, Riker noted, the captain had adopted his most regal carriage, with both feet planted firmly on the deck and his head held high as he studied the viewscreen. The very mention of Sarek and T’Sara’s homeworld seemed to trigger this unconscious show of respect; Picard’s only departure from a formal posture was the crooking of one arm to hold the Heart.

“I’ve been to Vulcan several times,” said the first officer, “but I’ve never had a chance to actually visit the planet surface. I’m looking forward to that opportunity now.”

When the silence that followed this comment lengthened uncomfortably, Troi leaned slightly forward from her position on the other side of Picard.

“Yes, I’m also looking forward to shore leave there. It should prove to be very interesting, if rather warm.” She spoke to Riker, but her eyes were on the captain.

Another silence.

“And I’m sure the Vulcan Science Academy will look forward to our arrival,” said Riker, forging ahead des pite a growing self-consciousness. He had started this damn conversation, but he couldn’t seem to stop it as easily. “The Heart is a most unusual—” “What did you say?” Picard turned to face his first officer. “What about the Heart?”

“Just that I’m sure the archaeologists at the Vulcan Science Academy must be very curious about it. As an historical relic, it should keep them occupied for quite some time.”

Picard reacted to that admittedly banal statement with a frown. His one free hand tugged at the hem of his tunic. “Yes, I suppose it will.”

“Isn’t that the purpose of this trip?” asked Troi, and Riker wondered what emotion she sensed that made this request for clarification necessary.

“To return the artifacts of T’Sara’s excavation to Vulcan?”

“Of course, Counselor,” said Picard with a grimace of impatience. “I was under the impression I had made that clear during our last briefing.”

Troi nodded, but made no reply.

“In the meantime, it makes a dandy conversation piece,” said Riker with a grin. No one laughed.

“Although, I’ve noticed that it must be lighter than it looks. You don’t seem to mind its weight.”

This was a rather blatant ploy for a chance to at least touch the stone; except for Data, the captain was the only one who had held the Heart.

“I hadn’t given it much thought,” said Picard.

He did not proffer the stone to his curious first officer, and Riker wondered why Picard had bothered to bring the stone with him onto the bridge.

To Riker’s relief, the next long silence finally signaled the death of this particular topic of conversation; but his trepidation returned when he saw Data swivel around in order to face the command center.

“Captain, I have completely reassembled and recalibrated all testing units in my laboratory, and I have certified that they are in excellent working order. If I could continue my examination of the Heart, we could provide the Academy scientists with valuable baseline information as to its nature.”

“That’s a very good point, Mr. Data.”

“Thank you, Captain.” The android swung aside the Ops console so that he could stand.

“Don’t bother with it now,” said Picard.

“I’ll deliver the Heart to the lab at the end of your duty shift.”

Data sank back down into his chair.

“Until then,” continued the captain, “I have some historical research of my own to attend to.

Number One, the bridge is yours.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Riker was actually relieved by Picard’s swift departure from the bridge to his ready room. This was a new feeling, and not one that the first officer welcomed.

“He’s very tired, Will,” said Deanna before he could even ask her to comment on the captain’s state of mind. “I sense he hasn’t been sleeping very well lately, and that makes him rather edgy.”

“The Borg nightmares again?”

Troi paused, then shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. He’s not so … shaken. Just tired and somewhat distracted.”

“Perhaps we should ask our chief medical officer to prescribe some warm milk at bedtime.”

“Warm milk?” asked Data.

Riker hated having to explain his quips to the android since they always sounded so lame after a clinical analysis. “That was just a joking reference to an old remedy for insomnia.”

“Ah. Then I might make a similar reference to using a wrench to regain possession of the Heart from the captain.” The android blinked in surprise when Riker laughed out loud. “Was that also funny?” he asked hopefully.

“Yes, it was, Data,” said Riker, but his grin faded when he saw the look of concern on Troi’s face. Apparently the ship’s counselor was not so amused.

As the chief medical officer of the Enterprise, Beverly Crusher had more than a passing acquaintance with the methods the crew used to deal with stress. Some of the more exuberant attempts at tension-relief resulted in a visit to sickbay. Miles O’Brien, for instance, was fond of white-water rafting, and Deanna Troi tended to eat large quantities of chocolate; thus the former occasionally needed muscle and bone regeneration, and the latter a stern reminder on the importance of a balanced diet.

Crusher was more inclined to moderation and indulged herself by dancing in the holodeck with a succession of computer-generated partners. However, when she was feeling especially despondent, the doctor ended up in sickbay as well.

“Are you sure you don’t mind updating these equipment inventories, Dr. Crusher?” asked the nurse as he held out his data padd.

Lewis was a relatively new staff member, one who hadn’t learned to take quick advantage of these rare moods.

“I don’t mind at all.” Crusher whisked the padd away from the man before he could change his mind. Two other nurses and a doctor had already cheerfully provided her with a full day’s worth of mind-numbing busywork projects, the kind she usually avoided like the plague or foisted off on some hapless resident who had run out of patients.

“Well, I really appreciate this …” Despite his words, Lewis still looked as if he was waiting for the catch.

“Am I interrupting something important?” came a voice from the doorway to her office.

“Not at all, Geordi.” She waved away the bewildered nurse and studied the chief engineer as he walked closer. La Forge showed no obvious signs of illness; except for an unusually somber expression, he appeared to be in good health. “What can I do for you?”

“This isn’t a medical matter, Doctor.

I just dropped by to see if you were coming to the poker game tonight.”

Crusher winced with the sudden realization that this was the source of her bad mood. Odd how she had managed to avoid this self-knowledge all morning.

Geordi must have seen her reaction, because he sighed and said, “Look, I’m really sorry about the last few days. We all know it wasn’t your fault we missed the championship, and I’d really feel bad if you stopped playing poker just because we’ve been acting like jerks.”

“Thank you, Geordi,” she said with a growing smile. “As it happens, I have plans for this evening, but it was very nice to be asked.”

“Next time?”

“Definitely.”

“Great.” Her assurance seemed to ease his conscience, because he walked out of the office with a much lighter step.

As the last tatters of her melancholy evaporated, Crusher shoved aside the temptation to break her dinner date with the captain so she could attend the poker game after all. Her vindication could wait until another time. Besides, she hadn’t seen much of Picard lately and …

She happened to glance down at her desk, a desk covered with the mountains of work that she had taken on, work she no longer had the slightest interest in doing.

Suddenly the pleasures of this evening lay too far in the future to even contemplate.

Data heard the sound of heavy footsteps marching down the curving bridge ramp. There was only one member of the crew who could overcome the shock-absorbent qualities of the deck carpet.

“Your duty shift is over … sir.”

Data looked up from the captain’s chair that he had occupied since Riker’s departure from the bridge. The ship’s security chief towered above him. “Thank you, Lieutenant Worf. I was just waiting for the captain.”

Worf glanced over his shoulder at the closed doors of the ready room. “He is busy.”

“Yes, it appears he is preoccupied and has forgotten our appointment. Perhaps I should remind—” The Klingon’s bony forehead gathered a new set of furrows. “One who holds the Pagrashtak should not be disturbed for trivial matters … sir.” He shifted his broad body ever so slightly to block Data’s view of the door. “The captain would be annoyed by an interruption.”

“Then my concerns can wait,” decided the android. Despite the belligerent delivery, Worf’s assessment of the situation was probably quite accurate.

“As most senior officer present, do you wish to retain command of the bridge?”

“No.” Data rose from the captain’s chair.

“I will be heavily involved in computer research on the aft deck. The conn is yours.”

This answer seemed to mollify the Klingon— his glower softened into a frown—yet Data was aware that Worf was still watching him as he proceeded up the ramp to the back of the bridge. It occurred to the android that Worf could be a bit overzealous in the execution of his duties, especially where Captain Picard’s welfare was concerned. No doubt these were admirable qualities in the chief of security, yet if Data were capable of emotion he would probably find them extremely irritating at times.

Taking a seat at an empty science console, Data changed its display option to a high-speed scan mode and quickly set to work.

During the last hour of his duty shift, he had prepared a contingency plan just in case he was delayed from working directly with the Heart. In the absence of new test results, he would proceed under the assumption that the anomalous data he had gathered was correct, and he would conduct a search for similar contradictory findings in both archaeological and geological data bases.

He began by requesting a listing of all instances in which variations in both dating and material composition were linked to one object. Cosmic spacesttime distortions were the first items to be ruled out; he narrowed the search field to objects less massive than black holes.

Then he excluded artificially generated anomalies that were the result of esoteric physics experiments.

Then the screen froze.

A Human would not have noticed; however, given the rate at which Data processed information, the brief lag was quite obvious to him.

After a microsecond flash of a new file listing, the screen returned to the previous display of physics experiments.

“Search complete. No new matches on stated search parameters.”

“That is not correct,” said Data firmly.

” Access Archaeology File TGOF-1284-678A.”

“No such file is present in the data base.”

The computer was in error. He had clearly seen that file listing added, then quickly deleted.

“Repeat, access Archaeology File TGOF-1284-678A.”

The screen went blank. “Listing error that file material has not been entered in the data base.”

Yet he had noted a considerable volume size in the file description. He considered a backdoor approach that might open a new access route. “Correlate data on the Devil’s Heart with data in Archaeology File TGOF-1284-678A and—” “Starfleet Command override … Attention Lieutenant Commander Data, USS Enterprise, you have requested classified material. Your current security clearance is not sufficient to allow access to this file.”

“Intriguing.” He tapped his comm insignia and began with, “Data to Commander Riker.”

Less than ten minutes later, the first officer was standing by Data’s side.

“Computer,” said Riker sternly. “This is Commander William T. Riker. Show me Archaeology File TGOF-1284-678A.”

The screen remained blank while the computer-generated voice repeated its refrain.

“Starfleet Command override … Attention Commander William T. Riker, USS Enterprise, you have requested classified material. Your current security clearance is not sufficient to allow access to this file.”

“Damn.” The first officer tapped his comm insignia. “Riker to Picard.”

Less than two minutes later, the captain had joined them on the aft deck. He listened patiently to Data’s recapitulation of the data base search. “And you think this file has material pertaining to the Heart?”

Data shook his head. “I cannot corroborate any connection until I have actually seen the file, but the request for a correlation triggered the security procedures.”

“Then I agree this subject is worth pursuing,” said Picard. “Computer, this is Captain Jean-Luc Picard. I require access to Archaeology File TGOF-1284-678A.”

“Starfleet Command override … Attention Captain Jean-Luc Picard, USS Enterprise, you have requested classified material. Submit your justification for access to Admiral Emm Wilkerson, Director of Starfleet Special Projects.”

“Well, I suppose that’s progress of some sort,” said Picard with a wry smile. “I’ll send a priority request for an explanation to the admiral right away.”

Given their distance from Command Headquarters, Data quickly calculated that the earliest possible response could not arrive for hours. In the meantime, however, he could conduct another round of laboratory tests.

“Mr. Data,” continued Picard, “until we’ve received some clarification from Starfleet Command, I suggest we suspend any further attempts to analyze the Heart.”

“As you wish, Captain.”

“Why am I not surprised by that?” muttered Riker under his breath as he watched Picard return to his ready room.

This was a rhetorical question, decided Data; he was not required to respond. Nonetheless, he noted with interest that his own reaction matched that of the first officer.

Beverly Crusher had just started the last paragraph of the last page of a very dreary set of reports when she heard the sound of the outer doors to sickbay open and shut. Her fingers picked up their pace over the keyboard.

“I’m almost done, Jean-Lu—” Then she looked up. “Oh, Deanna.”

“You were expecting the captain,” said Troi.

“Yes, actually, I was. He invited me to join him for dinner tonight.”

The counselor’s eyebrows quirked in surprise. “A very late dinner.”

Crusher cast a quick look at her desk chronometer and was amazed to see she had worked through most of the evening. “I’ve been rather absorbed in my work and lost track of time. He should have called me hours ago …” She could feel a slow burn of anger working its way up her neck. “In fact, I do believe the captain has stood up his chief medical officer … again.”

“Oh,” said Troi, her eyes bright with undisguised curiosity. “So this happened before?”

“Yes,” said Crusher with a tight smile.

“Last night we were supposed to have dinner to make up for a breakfast we missed. Only Jean-Luc didn’t show up. This morning he apologized and explained that he had been distracted by an unexpected meeting with Guinan.

To make amends, he promised to meet me for dinner tonight.”

“Knowing Captain Picard, he’s probably forgotten to eat entirely and is off somewhere studying the Heart.”

“Probably.” The doctor found scant consolation in this explanation. “He certainly is fascinated by it.”

“Well, I just stopped by to see if you wanted to help me celebrate. I just won fifty credits from—” “The poker game!” cried Crusher. “I forgot all about it. If the captain had bothered to cancel our dinner plans, I could have gone to the game instead.”

“Beverly,” said Troi in her most pedantic counselor voice, “it’s still not too late to call him.”

“Oh, no!” she said, sweeping the work tapes off her desk into a drawer and slamming it shut.

“After all, who am I to come between a man and his rock?”

He sat cross-legged on the bed, just as young Surak had sat on the cold ground of the desert, and the Heart rested in the cradle of his hands. The boy had been waiting for morning, but Picard was waiting for night.

It was so difficult to keep his eyes open, yet he fought to stay awake just a little while longer.

His cabin was dark, just as it had been that first night when he wakened from the dream of T’Sara’s death and saw the stone transformed. He wanted to see the change again. Or had its glittering light been part of the dream as well?

Could he even tell the difference between waking and dreaming any more? For three nights in a row, he had been left with memories of other lands and other people that were too vivid to dismiss as fantasy, yet he had no other name for them.

Visions, perhaps.

Starship captains were not supposed to have visions.

He knew he should tell someone, but he feared the telling would shatter the spell.

So tired. Too tired to watch the stone any longer. He slumped down onto the bed, curling himself around the warm, round shape.

Dreams were the voice of the Heart, and he would listen to what it had to say.

CHAPTER 19

Halaylah darted through the gathering crowd, skipping and twisting between the lumbering heavyset bodies that towered above her. News of the approaching bier had traveled quickly, outstripping even her nimble race to the doors of the Great Chamber. She wondered, in fact, if that knowledge had spread too quickly, whether there had been an air of veiled expectation when the cart lumbered up the causeway with its blood-sodden burden.

Three armor-clad admirals stood at the threshold of the throne room, planted like boulders in solemn and unperturbable authority, yet the guttural exchanges they whispered to each other betrayed their unease. As a rule, Klingons were not given to whispering; they bellowed and roared like wounded targs whether they were in a good humor or bad. She had been told they sounded much the same in battle or in lovemaking. After a decade of living on this planet, she still found the unleavened noise of its natives to be the most oppressive element of her captivity.

Skirting closer to the guarded entrance, Halaylah caught a whiff of the admirals’ fear, incongruously sweet compared to the normal acrid smell of a Klingon adult.

She listened to their awkward sibilant speech, then tucked a hidden smile inside her cheek.

These mighty warriors, with the blood of a dozen space-faring races on their hands, feared facing the emperor. Each was desperately trying to escape the honor of announcing the processional that marched ever closer.

Skipping past the admirals, ducking under the crossed swords of the Imperial guards and under the arched entrance, she passed unchallenged into the interior chamber. This was the privilege of the mightiest monarch and the lowliest servant.

Dim red light obscured the bleakness of bare stone walls and a flagstone floor, but did nothing to warm the chill air. Even the warriors among her people had craved beauty, whereas Klingons seemed to disdain the cultivation of art and music.

When she had ventured to question this lack of aesthetic development, Kessec had reminded her, not unkindly, that her elegant homeworld had been defeated in battle. Still, she wondered if she could have enjoyed victory over the Klingons if Tehalai had been as ugly as this planet. The loss of flower gardens and carved fountains saddened her more than the loss of her freedom.

Her slippered feet whisked softly over the hard tiles. At their sound, a deep voice cut through the murky air. “Approach and be recog—oh, it’s you, child.”

Kessec was unattended. More and more often she found him alone, yet he allowed her to enter and remain when all others had been sent away.

Despite his seclusion, she always found him dressed in ceremonial robes and chain-link, sitting erect on the wide metal throne as if he were about to admonish his admirals and ministers.

And always the Pagrashtak rested in the palms of his hands.

“Do they think I’m deaf?”

His hearing was sharper than hers, but even Halaylah could hear the muffled murmur of the crowd waiting outside.

“Your sons are bringing a bier to this chamber,” she said.

“All my sons?”

“All that are left alive, my Emperor.”

“Ah.” He, alone of all the Klingons she had met, had the capacity to express himself with subtlety and restraint. He said nothing more until the death marchers arrived. The security guards moved aside to admit the emperor’s sons and the burden they carried, but the procession stopped just over the threshold.

“Approach and be recognized!”

Halaylah, crouching in the shadows by the side of the thr one, watched as Mohtr, the eldest son, stepped forward and saluted. He echoed his father’s sturdy build, but his tangled mane was shot with white where Kessec’s hair remained black.

“Durall, son of Kessec, has brought honor to his family!”

She glanced quickly upward to study Kessec’s face. He betrayed no sign of emotion, yet she knew young Durall had been a favorite of his. She drew a deep breath and learned the smell of grief.

“How many shared that honor with him?” asked Kessec.

Mohtr hesitated, emitting the same sweet scent that had glistened on the skin of the admirals outside. “None. His death was an accident, Father.”

“A very small honor, then,” said Kessec.

“There have been many of these accidents of late among my sons bruises, wounds, broken bones.

Now death.”

“We are warriors!”

Leaning forward, Kessec curled back his lips. “Warriors die in battle, not in accidents; they kill their enemies, not their brothers.”

“You have left us precious few battles to fight, my Emperor,” said Mohtr, baring his teeth in return.

“Yes, that is one of the unexpected disappointments of overwhelming victory against our enemies.” Kessec sank back against the unyielding throne. “So is watching my sons squabble like scavengers over the right to succeed me.”

“If we succeed you. Unlike you, sire, we grow old. Better to die like Durall than to reach our dotage still yearning for our right to succession!”

“Enough, Mohtr.” Kessec dismissed him with an abrupt wave of his arm and called out, “Bring me Durall’s body.”

Even in the murky light, Halaylah could discern the sullen looks on the faces of the five bier-bearers as they shuffled forward and laid the pallet at the foot of the emperor’s dais. Durall’s body, once possessed of a wiry vitality, was limp and drained of color; his tunic was stiff with crusted blood where his chest had been crushed inward. She wrinkled her nose at the whiff of decomposition. Death smelled the same here as it did on Tehalai.

“I see there was no hurry to bring me this honor,” said Kessec as he rose from his throne.

The Pagrashtak was cradled in the crook of one arm.

“We were far from home, Father,” muttered Tagre, Fourth-born. “Travel was difficult.”

“No doubt.” Kessec stepped down from the circular base. Several of his sons were taller and broader of frame, yet to Halaylah they lacked his presence and gravity. She wondered if he had been born with that quality or whether it was another gift of the stone.

With one hand Kessec brushed aside a lock of Durall’s hair. The gentle gesture seemed to bring Kessec pain, a physical pain that stiffened his body; it lacked the aroma of grief. His fingers sought out the young man’s throat.

Time passed, but the emperor’s ragged breathing was the only sound in the chamber. Halaylah had never mastered the Klingon Discipline of Waiting, but she was too frightened to move. She could smell the changes in the body before she saw its skin darken with the warmth of flowing blood.

When Durall finally stirred, Kessec dropped his hand away.

“Is there anything the Pagrashtak can’t do?” cried Gistad, Second-born. Alone among his brothers, he met the restoration of life with a smile of wonder and joy. A politic reaction, noted Halaylah, for a man who might be the next to die.

She also noted the slump in Kessec’s broad shoulders, the effort with which he kept his head raised. The arm holding the Pagrashtak was drooping by his side.

“You are tired, Father,” said Mohtr, taking a step closer to the emperor. He averted his gaze from the stone, but his body twitched ever so slightly when Kessec shifted the talisman to his other hand.

“I will be fit enough by morning, as will Durall. And then we shall hear his account of this accident that befell him.”

“Hearing him speak again will be a miracle, but miracles are taxing; you must keep up your strength through eating.” Mohtr bellowed out for food. His call had barely stopped echoing before servants came running into the chamber with brimming bowls of meat, steaming pies, and jugs of ale.

“Such concern for my welfare is touching, Mohtr.”

His hand signal was weak, lightly sketched in air, but Halaylah had been waiting for the emperor to summon her. She scrambled out of the shadows to Kessec’s side.

“I’m partial to the rougath,” he said, scooping out a ball.

She leaned forward and sniffed his choice. The smell of the food itself was pure, but the tart glutinous paste had been handled by someone who had smeared his fear like icing over the top. Halaylah glanced up to the emperor and blinked her eyes in a gesture of rejection. Better not.

Kessec sighed. “Perhaps I will eat later.”

“You let this slave’s whelp run your life?”

“An eccentricity of mine. You, on the other hand, are welcome to ignore her warning.” He proffered the morsel to his First-born.

“I’m not hungry.”

“No, of course not.” Kessec dropped the food back onto a tray and carefully wiped his fingers on the rough fabric of his robe. “Leave me. All of you.”

The words were softly uttered, but even an emperor’s whisper had to be obeyed. The servants fled, dropping the tainted bowl, and everything else they had carried, onto the flagstones. His sons were less quick to abandon their dignity, but they too edged away without protest.

As they retreated from the chamber, Kessec called out to Mohtr one last time.

“Take a deep breath, First-born.

Deeper! That tightness you feel in your chest is from a bout of Gorault’s fever that you contracted as a boy. Few children survive that illness.”

“My survival is a sign of my strength!”

Mohtr cried in defiance, then marched out of the chamber.

“Ah. Of course.”

Halaylah stayed. She knew when Kessec did not want her with him, and this was not one of those times.

“Come closer, child.” In the early days of her service to the emperor, Kessec had tried to wrap his thick Klingon tongue around the delicate syllables of her name, then joined in her laughter at the clumsy result; but he had not laughed for over a year now, and there was no one else to speak her name aloud, no matter how mangled.

“I have another story to tell you,” he said, and she settled herself at his feet to listen.

“In a time before this one, there lived two brothers who had been born of the same mother and on the same day. Kessec and Batahr, for those were their names, were so alike in appearance that it was as if they were a single man and his still-water reflection walking together on land. Their hearts were equally mirrored; within each burned the bloodlust of a warrior, and when they fought together in battle, their enemies fled before them like dry straw on a high wind rather than face their raging fire.

“They shared the honor of their victory, just as they shared their weapons, their house, and their lovers.

In time, they even shared the reign of all the territory within a two week’s march of their birthplace.”

His deep, rasping voice fell silent.

“Then it came to pass,” prompted Halaylah when the pause in the story grew too long. The form of the telling was familiar, but she had not heard this tale of Kessec’s life before and was curious to hear more.

“Ah, yes, then it came to pass that the brothers defeated their greatest enemy, a neighboring warrior-king, and in their victory found the one thing which they could not share. The first brother to touch the Pagrashtak felt its warmth and heard its whispers; the other held a cold, silent stone. Soon, the first brother was loathe to loosen his grip on the prize. Instead, he swore an oath to share the fruits of its powers. Despite this generous offer, the second brother brooded and grew sour with jealousy and suspicion, until he forgot all honor and slew his twin while he slept.”

Halaylah sniffed cautiously at the lip of a mug of ale, then passed it over to Kessec.

He took a deep draft of the hot liquid before continuing.

“The traitor grasped the stone and felt its powers, but he also repented of his murderous deed, so he used the stolen Pagrashtak to bring his dead brother back to life.”

“You saved him just like you saved Durall!” cried Halaylah with a joyful stamp of her feet. Klingon tales rarely had such a satisfying ending.

“No, child,” said Kessec. “Batahr raised me from the dead. And for that deed, I quickly slew him in turn. Then I burned his body and scattered the ashes so I could never be tempted to resurrect him.”

Not such a happy ending after all, she sighed to herself.

“All this happened long ago,” said Kessec, reciting the formulaic ending of a historic narrative. He studied the face of his youngest son, the one who looked the most like him and who, she realized, must also look like his dead brother. “Or so I thought.”

Durall’s breathing was still labored and his limbs trembled with the pain of his wounds. Kessec laid a palm flat against his son’s heaving chest and kept it there until the boy sighed and slipped into an untroubled sleep.

The effort left the emperor so weak that he lost his grip on the Pagrashtak. Halaylah cried out in distress when the stone rolled away from him.

Her dismay deepened when she heard his next command. “Take it, quickly, before I recover my strength. And my greed.”

“Sire?”

“Take it!”

She took the Pagrashtak in her hands. It was warm to the touch and not as heavy as she had expected.

“Go,” whispered Kessec. “Go as far from here as you can, child. Found your own empire if you must, but take this curse away from me and mine.”

Slipping the stone into her shapeless tunic where it nestled like a curled beast against her stomach, Halaylah ran from the throne chamber for the last time.

Those light footsteps were still echoing in T’Sara’s mind when her eye s opened. She breathed deeply of the cool air of the Collector’s chamber. The desert night encircling the tower would be even colder.

“So that is what you were once,” said the Vulcan woman to the mummified body. “And look at what you have become now.”

When had the generous young slave girl turned into the miserly, grasping, and selfish fanatic that T’Sara had met in other dreams?

Ten years of excavation had shown that Halaylah used the powers of the Pagrashtak to found an artist’s colony on Atropos, but it had flourished for only a century. Over time, her desire for creating beauty had narrowed into a rapacious hunger for possession.

T’Sara had tried to explain to Sorren what had happened, to teach him to feel how the self-entombment of their founder would horrify Halaylah’s followers. While he acknowledged the physical evidence of the disbanding of the colony, he would not allow himself to fathom their motivation.

Young Vulcans were like that; too unsure of their emotional control to risk the dangers of empathy.

“But I am old enough to contemplate what I will not emulate you wanted to keep the Ko N’ya to yourself for all eternity. If not for me, you would have succeeded, but I have taken it from you.”

T’Sara stroked the glittering stone. “Did none of them ever wonder what you wanted, Ko N’ya? I have seen much of your journey, but I keep searching the dreams for a clue as to where you are going.”

Her head fell back against the chamber wall.

But I am old … and so tired … I may not have the strength to find your answer.

Her eyes closed …

… and the outermost shell of nested dreams shattered when Picard opened his eyes. He felt as old and tired as T’Sara until he drew a shuddering breath and revived his own strength.

“A journey?” he asked the glowing Heart that hugged his side. “Is that what this is all about?”

Its inner fire seemed to flare more brightly than before.

CHAPTER 20

Estrella Miyakawa had reached the rank of lieutenant commander of the USS Brande through sheer hard work, but by that point in her career it was obvious that her promotions were lagging farther and farther behind those of her Academy classmates. Then Starfleet Command had made it clear that a transfer off a starship would be her only route to becoming a full commander; affronted by the mandate, she finally had agreed to an administrative post rather than remain at that lower rank forever.

She had expected a prestigious but routine desk job at any one of a dozen major starbases. To her dismay, however, she found herself in charge of an isolated docking base on the fringes of Federation space. Insult had been added to injury.

So for the first year of her assignment at Starbase 193, Miyakawa had nursed a bitter grudge against Starfleet and the character assessment tests that had robbed her of the command of a starship. Then, by the second year, her innate sense of honesty had reasserted itself, and her resentments had eased in the face of self-knowledge while she possessed the independence of mind that all good captains needed, she had never learned to moderate that trait. Blunt to a fault and impatient with subordinates, she had earned a reputation for being difficult and creating unnecessary tension among the crew of every ship on which she had served.

By her third year of duty, Miyakawa knew she had found her proper niche in life. As the sole officer on the base, she had no one to answer to but herself. On a starship her brusque manner and snap decisions had ruffled feathers; here they had earned her the respect of the hardened locals and a rapid promotion to captain. Over the course of five years, Starbase 193 became her home, and Miyakawa lost the desire to walk any deck other than this one.

Still, there were times when she would have welcomed the presence of another Fleet officer.

Now was one of those times.

The commander scanned the page in her hand once again. Despite its dry tone, the Starfleet security communiqu`e troubled her. During his brief visit, Picard had teased her about the tendency of administrators to exaggerate the magnitude of their problems. She had bristled at the implied criticism of her judgment, but today she yearned to hear his opinion on this matter.

Lifting her gaze to the curving windows of her office, Miyakawa studied the tranquil scene of exterior base activity with growing unease.

An Andorian passenger ship floated through space in search of the orbit coordinates dictated by the station dockmaster; maintenance droids swarmed over the hull of a Tellarite freighter; a shuttlecraft ferried a salvage crew to the remains of a Ferengi Marauder. To all appearances, this was the start of another routine, uneventful day.

Yet, if there was a Romulan warbird out there, it would be cloaked and invisible to her eyes.

She shook her head and returned her attention to the communiqu`e. Really, the very notion that there might be Romulans headed for this sector was absurd. Even if Starfleet intelligence was accurate and a warbird had indeed crossed the Neutral Zone, there was nothing of value at Starbase 193 to attract the attention of any enemy of the Federation. Six other sectors had received this routine warning and any one of them was a more likely target.

Tapping her comm insignia, Miyakawa said, “Miyakawa to dockmaster.”

“Ramsey here.”

“Initiate Security One shutdown procedures for all docking operations.”

She was accustomed to immediate obedience from her staff, but Ramsey’s brief silence was understandable under the circumstances.

“What’s going on, Commander?”

“I’m feeling bored today.” She wasn’t ready to explain her decision to anyone yet, not even herself.

“Right. Well, this should liven up everyone’s life. Security One shutdown now in effect.”

Within seconds, the Andorian passenger ship came to a dead stop; maintenance droids scurried away from the freighter, then dove through the closing doors of a cargo bay; and the repair shuttle executed a sharp turn on its hasty return to the station. There would be no more dockings or departures without her express permission, and every crewmember or passenger on shore leave would be automatically recalled to his ship.

The decision to suspend service operations would outrage every captain in the sector; it would disrupt tight flight schedules and inconvenience thousands of passengers and merchants. So before the first wave of irate calls could flood through her office, Miyakawa made a second announcement.

“Attention all starbase personnel.

Security One alert procedures are now in effect. This is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill.”

The scramble to close down shops and return to quarters would keep everyone quiet for at least fifteen minutes. She had that much time to think of an excuse for her actions.

Someone tell me I’m overreacting.

Camenae was just the person for the job, thought Miyakawa ruefully when the bar owner swept into the Starfleet office. Of course, Miyakawa’s open-door policy was not in effect during a security alert, but Camenae was not known for her adherence to station regulations.

“I need to talk to you, Commander.”

If this had been a normal alert, Miyakawa would have had no patience for interruptions, but this time there was no discernible emergency, no further demands on her authority, so there seemed little point in turning Camenae away. “I imagine you’re here to register a complaint from the trade community.”

“No. I was already on my way here.” The woman sat down, leaned her elbows on the desk, and said, “Four twenty-three mark seventy-six mark three sixty-seven.”

Miyakawa puzzled over the sequence. “Those coordinates are in this sector.” She punched the numbers into her viewer padd, then studied the screen image. “However, according to Federation star charts, there’s nothing but a few asteroids at that intersection.”

Camenae shook her head. “One of those asteroids is three kilometers in diameter, large enough to hide Smelter’s Hold in its hollow core.”

“What! Starfleet has been trying to confirm the location of the Hold for years; now you walk in here and give me its coordinates. Why?”

“Because I suspect the outpost no longer exists.”

The commander’s sense of approaching danger grew stronger. “Explain.”

“I had an operative working at the Hold,” Camenae hesitated, then continued with an uncharacteristic revelation, “who was tracking after Reyjad@an.”

“The DiWahn who killed Grede?” It was Miyakawa’s best guess, but she knew better than to expect any confirmation. When Camenae nodded agreement, the commander’s alarm deepened yet again.

Camenae began to talk faster, as if rushing against time. “The Squib witnessed a curious scene at the Hold bazaar. DaiMon Tork was pulling a scam on two traders … two Vulcans. He left the bazaar in their company and did not return.”

The commander’s fist clenched, crumpling the communiqu`e into a tight ball. “What are the odds of any Vulcan trader knowing about the Hold?”

“That was my first thought, but I didn’t have the chance to ask any more questions. Our communications were cut.

All contact with the Hold has been lost.”

With her heart racing from a sudden surge of adrenalin, Miyakawa asked, “Camenae, do you know of any reason why a Romulan warbird would be headed to this starbase?”

“I think they are after T’Sara’s Ko N’ya.”

“I find that hard to believe.” Yet that very suspicion had been at the root of her apprehension. “Would the Romulans risk an interstellar war with the Federation and its allies for so little?”

“If the Romulans gain possession of the Ko N’ya,” said Camenae, “they could probably win that war.”

Miyakawa reached for her comm insignia one more time. “Attention all starbase personnel.

Initiate evacuation procedures. This is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill.”

Finally, she knew what to do next.

“Dispose of him,” said Commander Taris, stepping away from the limp body.

She waited, seemingly impassive, as two security guards rushed forward to remove the Ferengi from the chair. In truth, she had to clench her jaw to keep from snapping at them to hurry as they fumbled with the bindings that held the subject in place.

Subcommander Vedoc was less self-disciplined; she could hear his boot tapping impatiently on the ship’s metal deck. “So, this wretched Ferengi was telling the truth after all, and he hid nothing from us.”

“I could have done with far less revelation,” Taris said dryly. The clever trickster had dissolved into a babbling fountain of information even before he was attached to the mind-sifter; she wondered if all of his species were equally weak-willed.

The last of the restraints were unfastened, and one of the guards easily lifted the small alien into the air. Both of the subject’s eyes were still open, darting this way and that in independent directions. The highest setting of the mind-sifter seemed to sever the brain’s ability to coordinate muscle movement; it severed many other connections as well.

The DaiMon was still alive in a technical sense, but this vegetative state would not persist for long as the body’s nervous system functions continued to fail.

When the guards had carried the body away, Taris could speak more freely. “The Enterprise! I might have known it would be involved with these tales of the Ko N’ya’s reappearance.”

“But Commander, most of what he told us was speculation rather than fact.”

“Learn to trust your instincts, Vedoc.” She suspected that instinct was another of the leadership qualities that he lacked; worse yet, he apparently lacked a comprehensive knowledge of their enemies. “The captain of the Enterprise has a fondness for ancient cultures, and this would not be the first time he has meddled in our affairs.”

“Then it will be his last!”

“Your enthusiasm is noted,” said Taris.

The young man jerked to attention, chest puffed out; he had mistaken her sarcasm for praise. What a shame that his finely chiseled features were not accompanied by an equally impressive intellect.

With a weary sigh, the commander turned on her heel and marched swiftly out of the interrogation chamber. Vedoc scuttled after her.

When they stepped into the circular bridge, the quiet air of efficiency restored her temper.

Unlike the subcommander, the soldiers hunched over their work stations had served on the Haakona for years. Taris had weeded out the weak and the stupid, leaving her with a leaner crew than most warbirds possessed, but one that was more competent.

She stepped up onto the dais of the captain’s chair. Each of the crew cast her a quick side-glance that signaled their ready status; a simple nod on her part would have elicited a verbal report; a series of hand signals could relay her own orders. The subtlety of this silent communication usually unnerved Vedoc, who preferred to bark out his commands.

A flash of orange light warned of a sudden change in the ship’s status.

“Third-stage perimeter alert, Commander,” explained the weapons officer. “Vessel one approaching on a direct intercept vector, seven minutes; Vessel two approaching on a direct intercept vector, eleven minutes; Vessel three will pass within firing distance in five minutes.”

The viewscreen was clouded by the dampening effect of the Haakona’s cloaking field, but she could see three globular shapes growing in size as they drew nearer.

“We’ll be surrounded,” whispered Vedoc.

Even in the subdued light of the command pit, Taris could see him tremble at the thought.

“Surrounded by two freighters and a passenger ship,” explained the weapons officer without any trace of amusement. Seemus was too well trained to reveal contempt for a superior officer, even one who had not learned the difference between an alert and a warning.

“Full power to the cloaking device,” ordered Taris. Her voice carried easily across the still bridge. “Evasive maneuvers to avoid collision.”

The first of the approaching vessels filled the viewscreen, then veered off to one side. Her helmsman had steered the Haakona out of harm’s way with an economy of motion. He ducked under the second trade ship, then returned the warbird to its previous course heading.

“Estimated arrival at the starbase in twelve minutes.”

If fortune favored this mission, the Enterprise and her captain would soon rue their theft of Romulan property.

A new shape took form on the viewscreen, the triangular profile of an orbital docking station. Even with the compromised resolution of the image, Taris could see that the space surrounding the station, an area normally cluttered with stationary vessels, was empty.

She looked to her navigator for an explanation.

“Commander,” said Etrajan, “sensors reveal there are no life-signs on the starbase.”

“Your instruments must be in error!” Vedoc stepped behind the man and peered over his shoulder to double-check the instrument readout. “Life support functions are still operating … energy collectors near maximum …” He scowled fiercely, then said, “no life-signs.”

“And no Enterprise.” Little else mattered to Taris, but Vedoc kept prattling on about the station.

“Somehow they must have been warned! A full-scale evacuation explains the ships we passed earlier. We could still catch one—” “No,” Taris snapped, growing weary of his inflexibility; a good soldier learned to adjust to the fluctuations of war. “Let them pass on.

We have larger game to track.”

“Yes, Commander.” He ducked his head, visibly chastened by her reprimand, another sign that he was too easily swayed even from a bad opinion. At the conclusion of this mission, she would recommend that his highly placed uncle find another post for his nephew; Vedoc would not serve on her ship again.

“What is our next course of action?” he asked.

“Destroy the base as planned.”

His large brown eyes blinked rapidly in confusion. “But there’s no one even on the station.”

“It doesn’t matter, Subcommander.”

Perhaps, if she was exceptionally clever, he could die honorably in battle; his uncle would probably thank her. “Upon hearing of the destruction of a Federation starbase, the nearest starship will proceed immediately to this sector.”

“And that starship will be the Enterprise,” said Vedoc, finally comprehending the obvious.

“Photon torpedoes locked on target,” announced Seemus.

“Fire.”

A cluster of dark shapes shot out from beneath the warbird’s curving hull. She lost sight of them as they sped through the void toward their target, but the weapons officer tracked their progress.

“… three … two … one …”

Commander Taris smiled as she watched the starbase explode into a cloud of molten metal.

Its fires flared like a beacon in the cold night of space.

CHAPTER 21

Having reached the limits of his own understanding, Data swiveled his Ops station around to face the occupant of the captain’s chair.

“Commander Riker, I have been reviewing your evocation of “Lady Luck” during the course of the game last night. Despite your repeated requests for intervention from that entity, in actual fact, your poker performance fell below your usual standards.”

The first officer sighed. “Luck is fickle, Data.”

“And do you believe that explains why Counselor Troi won?”

“No,” said the first officer. “Deanna cheats.”

“Intriguing.” Data had not expected that explanation. “However, I saw no evidence of—” “That was a joke.”

“Yes, of course.” A very small one, Data decided; he would forgo a laughter response. Besides, according to Geordi, the chuckle he had developed was still in need of refinement.

The android was about to resume a forward position when a soft beep from the aft deck caught his attention.

“Incoming message from Starfleet Command,” announced Worf as he scanned the communications console. “A Priority One, security-coded communiqu`e from the Department of Special Projects.”

“That is probably the answer to our inquiry on the Heart,” said Data. The response time was three hours and thirteen minutes shorter than his estimate, which implied a greater urgency than he had assigned to the matter.

“Pipe it to the captain’s ready room, Lieutenant,” ordered Riker, as he rose from his chair.

Data slipped out from under the console to accompany the first officer.

“You are not included, Mr. Data,” said Worf firmly. “According to my security instructions, only Captain Picard and Commander Riker have been granted clearance to view this message.”

The android sat back down.

“Sorry, Data,” said Riker. “You know how the Brass loves to guard its secrets; but I’ll bet that by the end of this mission, we can fill you in on the details.”

“Thank you, Commander. Nevertheless, I suspect this is one conundrum I will never be allowed to solve. Fortunately, I have no—” “—no emotions.” Riker completed the sentence for him.

“Correct. So I am not disturbed by the lack of resolution in this matter.”

The first officer shrugged. “If you say so, Data.”

“Yes, Commander, I do say so.” However, this clarification only seemed to amuse Riker; he was still smiling when he walked into the ready room.

Data had encountered this same veiled skepticism among members of the crew on other occasions; Dr. Crusher and the captain often made similar asides to his declarations.

Data addressed the security chief. “I do not possess the capacity for emotion.”

Worf grunted. “I do not care … sir.”

“What exactly is Spe cial Projects?” asked Riker as he sat down across from the captain.

“Few people below the rank of admiral seem to know.” Picard plucked the Heart off a stack of books and shoved them to one side. When he had cleared the area around the small viewscreen, he said, “I’ve heard it called the “black hole” department because information goes in, but it rarely comes back out.”

“Well, then, this should be very interesting.”

A figure suddenly appeared on the screen.

Admiral Wilkerson was a spare, elderly woman with a tight bun of fading coral-red hair and a brisk but congenial manner.

“Captain Picard, if I played this by the book, neither you nor Commander Riker would be allowed to hear anything I’m about to say. Fortunately, Special Projects is given some latitude in its affairs, and it is my judgment that you need to know the scope of the situation.”

Her expression grew more somber.

“The analysis anomalies which you reported are not unique. They have been detected emanating from a … structure, perhaps even a being, of immense age. We call it the Guardian of Forever, and there is a strong possibility that the relic you possess is a fragment broken from the Guardian.”

Out of the corner of one eye, Riker could see the captain’s hands close protectively around the stone.

“If this is so,” continued the admiral, “the legends of the Heart’s powers may not be exaggerated. The Guardian itself is beyond our comprehension; we haven’t even confirmed whether or not it is sentient … and it has other properties that are best not talked about.”

Like what? wondered Riker with growing unease.

“A team of researchers from Special Projects will be waiting for you on Vulcan; they can take the Heart to more secure quarters.

However, be very careful on your journey here, Captain Picard. At all costs, the Heart must be kept out of the hands of the Federation’s enemies.”

Admiral Wilkerson blinked away, and once again the screen went dark.

“The Guardian of Forever,” said Picard, but he was looking down at the Heart as he spoke.

“Is that where you belong?”

“Captain?”

Picard looked up as if startled that he was not alone. “Yes?”

“Up until now, we’ve assumed this rock was a harmless archaeological relic.” Riker shook his head in disbelief at Starfleet’s revelations. “But if what the admiral said is true, you’d be safer holding a photon torpedo in your hands. Shouldn’t we keep the Heart in a guarded security vault?”

The captain frowned at the suggestion. “I don’t think deep storage will be necessary. If anything, it will simply draw extra attention to the Heart. However, to be on the safe side, I’ll order an end to any more of Data’s attempts at laboratory analysis.”

This wasn’t the result Riker had intended, but before he could marshal an argument, Picard added, “That will be all, Number One.”

“Aye, sir.” Riker rose and walked swiftly out of the room and onto the bridge.

Data looked up from his Ops console, his gold eyes gleaming with unasked questions.

“Don’t hold your breath, Data.”

“Sir?”

Riker kept walking.

He passed through the command area and was halfway up the side ramp when he tapped his comm link and said, “Riker to Counselor Troi. Meet me in the main conference room.”

The captain’s chair of a starship was comfortable— Worf knew this from personal experience—but until such time as he earned the right to assume command authority, the Klingon preferred his position on the aft deck. From this lofty perch, he could observe every action on the bridge and overhear almost all conversations. He had little personal interest in most of the information he gathered, but as the chief of security, Worf felt it was his duty to be aware of the petty concerns of the crew and the weightier matters that involved the senior officers.

So Worf did not miss the anxious look on Commander Riker’s face as he strode off the bridge toward the conference room; his call to the ship’s counselor was duly noted as well.

“There appears to be a problem,” said Data.

The android had a comment for every event, no matter how minor; he would not have lasted very long on a Klingon warship.

“Messy Human problems.”

Unfortunately, Troi’s involvement was usually a warning of an imminent disruption to order and discipline on board the ship.

“In theory, the counselor’s early involvement can forestall the development of greater difficulties.”

“Bad theory.” Worf had little faith in the android’s understanding of such matters. “Klingon ships have no counselors, and they have fewer problems.”

Before Data could prolong this exchange, Worf turned away to a more concrete task, one that did not involve speculation about Human frailties.

Flickering green lights on his console indicated the presence of a faint communications broadcast in the sector surrounding Starbase 193. The steady pulse of a blue light indicated that the signal was an automated message, sent out at regular intervals but without sufficient power to reach a starship traveling at warp speed.

The security chief made a slight adjustment to the alignment of the ship’s antenna array. Then another.

By the time Riker had returned to the bridge, with Counselor Troi following in his wake, Worf had established that the call was spread across all the frequencies used by commercial freighters and passenger liners, and that it was broadcast in a scattershot pattern that would saturate the sector. Since only a starbase had the energy resources for that effort, the implication was that Commander Miyakawa was transmitting information of importance to local ship traffic.

Worf rechanneled more auxiliary power to the amplifiers of the subspace transceivers.

Deanna Troi rang the chime to the ready room. As she waited for a response from within, she could feel Riker watching her. The first officer’s concern hovered like a cloud over the bridge, but during their meeting in the conference room he had fumbled for words to explain his unease. In the end, Riker simply shrugged and asked her to see for herself if she sensed any changes in the captain.

“Come.”

The counselor stepped forward through the opening doors, then paused on the other side of the threshold until the sliding panels had closed behind her; she needed the barrier to help her block out Riker’s anxiety. Taking a deep breath, Troi cleared her mind of expectations, then approached the captain’s desk.

She had planned to begin this session with a casual conversation, thus constructing an oblique approach to probe Picard’s mood. As soon as she drew near, however, the empath sensed an intensity of emotion that would not yield to such subtle methods. Although the captain was looking straight at her, his mind was focused on the book he held and on the Heart, which rested near his right hand.

“You’ve been very absorbed of late,” remarked Troi.

“I’ve been following a hunch,” said Picard. She read an excitement, almost an exultation, in that statement. Her timing was fortunate; he was in need of an audience. “I believe that T’Sara saw a pattern in the Heart’s travels to different worlds, and that is how she tracked the stone to Atropos in the first place. Although any record of her conclusions was destroyed in the attack of the campsite, many of the original pieces of the puzzle are still here in her writings.”

“Tell me more,” said Troi. She was mildly curious about the Heart, but even more curious about the captain’s reaction to it.

“For instance,” Picard said, “the Heart appears in both Andorian mythology and early Klingon history. But how could it possibly have traveled from the healers of Andor to the emperor Kessec? The key lies in the records of the first Andorian/ferengi contact the Ferengi threatened wholesale slaughter of the populace if they were not provided with “trade” merchandise.”

“How charming.” She noticed that the lines of his face were more pronounced than usual. Had he lost weight in the last few days?

“Among the items of tribute may have been the Heart. However, unaware of its true value, the Ferengi merely loaded it into the hold of a freighter and carried it away.” Picard opened the book to a marked place near the back.

“T’Sara’s appendix includes the ship’s manifest; it lists “assorted baubles and trinkets” which were later traded to the barbaric natives of a technologically primitive world known as Kronos.”

“This is all very fascinating, but what is its significance to our current mission?”

“Deanna, you must see that the Heart is going somewhere. It also has a mission.”

“Really?” she said. “I’m not sure that I would have drawn that conclusion.” But Picard did not appear to hear her doubt.

He swiveled around his desk viewer so she could see the star map on its screen. His enthusiasm flaring like an aura around him. “If I can chart where the Heart has been, perhaps I can determine where it is going, its final destination … and its motivation.”

“You make it sound alive.” She reached down and picked up the Heart. She sensed nothing from the stone, but Picard’s shifting emotions were obvious.

“You resent my holding it. Why?”

“Not at all, Counselor. I’m simply concerned that—” “Riker to Captain Picard. We’ve picked up a distress call from Starbase 193.”

How ironic, Troi observed, that it was Riker himself who was interrupting the session, one that he had specifically requested.

“On my way, Number One,” called out Picard, quickly rising to his feet.

Troi stepped aside to let the captain pass, but he stopped just long enough to pull the Heart from her hands. With a frosty smile, he said, “We shall have to continue this discussion some other time.”

Instead of putting the Heart back on the desk, Picard carried the stone away with h im.

Like every member of the bridge crew, Lieutenant Worf held himself to high standards of performance. Fulfilling one’s duty was no cause for congratulations; competence was expected, not rewarded. Nevertheless, he felt a measure of satisfaction in having captured the transmission from Starbase 193 just before the Enterprise had traveled beyond the range of the signal. He had undertaken the effort as an exercise in long-distance communications recovery, but the result had proved to be of far greater importance than he had expected.

“Status report, Number One,” demanded the captain as he strode out of the ready room.

To the Klingon’s gratification, Picard carried the Pagrashtak with a care and dignity that showed the proper respect for its powers.

Riker rose to his feet, vacating the captain’s chair. “Lieutenant Worf has picked up an automated distress call from Starbase 193.”

At a nod from the first officer, Worf touched his console to release the message. Commander Miyakawa’s voice was coldly factual, but emphatic.

“… is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill. Starbase 193 has been evacuated; do not approach the base; do not attempt to dock. I strongly advise all vessels to leave the sector. This is not a drill. Repeat …”

Worf cut off the repeating loop.

“Why have they evacuated?” demanded Picard.

“No explanation,” said Riker with a shrug of frustration.

After checking another panel of the console, the Klingon shook his head. “Channels are open, but there is still no answer to our hails.”

“Continue contact efforts, Lieutenant.” The captain took his place in the command center and addressed his next spate of orders to the helm. “Set course for a return to Starbase 193.”

Even though he concentrated his visual attention on the tactical station, Worf still listened to the general activity on the bridge Data laid in the new course, Geordi confirmed sufficient power for a sustained warp eight, and Picard sent the Enterprise back toward the starbase.

The deck throbbed beneath Worf’s feet as the high warp speed strained the propulsion engines to near maximum capacity. Within seconds, the faded distress call from Starbase 193 reappeared on the communications console.

“Estimated arrival in four hours and seven minutes,” said Data.

Just under Worf’s tactical station, Picard and Riker were discussing reasons for the unexpected diversion. Their muted voices drifted upward.

“The likeliest explanation is that the station suffered some kind of equipment malfunction,” said Riker.

“But why weren’t we notified? Miyakawa knew our course headings; she could have sent a distress call directly to us if—” A flurry of crimson alarms suddenly tripped across the tactical consoles on the aft deck. From where he stood, Worf could see identical patterns washing over Data’s Ops controls as well.

“Captain,” called out Worf.

“Long-range sensor scans have detected an explosion in the sector.”

The android confirmed the announcement with a sharp nod of his head. “Magnitude of the energy release would be consistent with the detonation of a starbase’s generators.”

“And the base distress call has stopped,” added Worf. All signs of the strengthening signal had disappeared.

“Damn!” exclaimed Riker, jumping to his feet. “We’ll need survival rescue teams, paramedics—” “Hold on that,” said Picard. His order froze the first officer in place. “Lieutenant Worf, are there any other Federation vessels within this quadrant?”

Worf quickly checked the latest position reports from Starfleet Command. “At warp nine, the Portsmouth could reach Starbase 193 in six point five hours; the Plath would take seven hours.”

“Captain!” protested Riker. “Those extra hours could mean the difference between life and death to any people who were on that station.”

“We will have to trust to Commander Miyakawa’s efficiency and assume there was sufficient time for a complete evacuation. If she had wanted the Enterprise to provide assistance, she would have signaled us directly; she intended for us to stay away.”

“But why would—” “I suspect someone destroyed the starbase while in pursuit of the Heart,” said Picard.

“We have become a magnet for trouble, Number One, and our best course of action is to draw that trouble away from innocent bystanders.”

“Deliberately make ourselves a target?”

“Exactly.”

Picard rose to his feet, moving to the center of the bridge. As he turned toward the aft deck, Worf could see that the captain gripped the Pagrashtak in both hands, just as a warrior might hold fast to the pommel of his sword.

“Lieutenant Worf, transmit a message to the Portsmouth on an uncoded channel “Enterprise has urgent business elsewhere, request you proceed immediately to Starbase 193 to aid survivors.” And for good measure, send the same message to whatever may be left of Starbase 193. Be sure to include our current coordinates.”

Next, Picard turned to face the helm.

“Mr. Data, set course for … one twenty-three mark twelve. Reduce speed to warp six.”

Their path was obviously picked at random, and this arbitrary choice seemed to disturb the first officer; his face creased with worry. Unlike Riker, however, Lieutenant Worf knew their final destination, and he faced it with courage and eager anticipation.

Since the days of Emperor Kessec, no other Klingon had been honored with the opportunity to serve a commander who wielded the powers of the Pagrashtak. This journey would soon become legend, and all Klingon legends ended in death.

CHAPTER 22

“Here it comes—brace yourself!” cried Miyakawa as she pressed herself deeper into the cushions of the acceleration seat.

The cubical lifeboat bucked wildly, buffeted by the explosive force of expanding vapors and a deadly hail of disintegrating fragments, all that remained of Starbase 193. Force fields protected the pod’s hull, but she knew that each muffled impact sapped just a little more energy from a finite supply.

Seconds later, the wave of flying debris had passed and the jarring collisions stopped just as abruptly as they had begun. The lifeboat’s reaction control system hissed on and off in short bursts until the craft slowed its tumbling motion, then stabilized with a constant horizon line.

“Down to sixty-five percent of power reserves,” she said after scanning the control panel.

“Is that good or bad?”

Miyakawa turned to her companion; the commander could just make out Camenae’s broad face in the faint glow of light from the illuminated console.

“It means we have about fifty-six person-days of life support left, which means the two of us can survive in here for twenty-eight days.”

The dark wing of a Romulan warbird swooped across the view screen, blocking out the vista of stars.

Miyakawa quickly reached for the pod’s manual override switch; even the smallest puff of the accelerators could give away their existence. She held her breath until the uncloaked ship had receded into the distance.

“Of course, power reserves are immaterial if the Romulans detect us first,” said Miyakawa in a low whisper. According to the pod’s rudimentary sensors, the warbird was traveling through space in a wide arc, tracing a lazy circle around the guttering fires of her dead starbase.

They would be back.

“But we’ll have to risk using impulse engines soon,” said Camenae. “If we’re still in this area when the Enterprise arrives, this lifeboat could get caught in some very nasty cross fire.”

“The Enterprise won’t be coming back to this sector,” said Miyakawa. “In fact, there may not be a rescue effort for quite some time.”

“What!”

“I didn’t notify Starfleet about the evacuation; instead, I restricted the broadcast to this sector’s traffic channels. The Romulans are using my starbase as bait, and I wasn’t about to help them set the trap.”

“I see,” said Camenae. She shifted uncomfortably in the narrow confines of her chair.

“This isn’t going to be pleasant. I’ve seen packing crates with more room to move.”

Miyakawa couldn’t argue the point. The escape pod’s truncated cube shape provided storage compartments for generous quantities of survival supplies, but the four crew seats took up most of the remaining space of the interior.

“I’m sorry, Camenae, but I assumed you would leave the station on a freighter or a liner like everyone else. If you had followed my orders, you would have been safely away by now.”

“And you would have been vaporized. Like some melodramatic sea captain who refuses to abandon a sinking ship.”

After a long silence, Miyakawa said, “I lost track of time.”

The other woman snorted. “There wasn’t that much time to keep track of.”

Miyakawa shrugged, then realized that her companion could not see the gesture in the dark. She hadn’t made a conscious decision to stay on the starbase, but she hadn’t scrambled for the lifeboat until she found Camenae wandering through the deserted docking bay. “Wait a minute. Why were you still on board the station?”

Camenae’s silence lasted so long that it seemed she was not going to answer at all. There was a quaver in her voice when she finally spoke.

“I’ve been through this before … and I’m tired of being a survivor.”

So, they had rescued each other, reluctant heroes sacrificing their own death so that the other might live.

“I’ll see to it that you survive again this time, whether you like it or not,” said Miyakawa with a fierce conviction that welled up from inside of her.

“A starbase can be rebuilt. Our lives can be rebuilt.”

“That’s a job for the young.” Camenae uttered a weary sigh. “And I’m much older than I look.”

“Not too old to feel sorry for yourself.”

“Thank you, Commander,” said Camenae dryly.

“Your sympathy is appreciated.”

Miyakawa laughed. “My charming personality is well-known throughout Starfleet. Think how fortunate you are to be cooped up with me for—” A flashing light signaled the activation of the pod’s transceiver. “Incoming message.”

She released the sound into the cabin.

“Attention USS Portsmouth Priority distress call … Starbase 193 has been destroyed … Enterprise has urgent business elsewhere … request you proceed immediately to aid survivors.”

“I don’t get it.” Miyakawa shook her head in disbelief. “That was an uncoded broadcast. Everyone in the sector probably heard that message.”

“Look!” Camenae pointed to the viewscreen.

In the distance, they could see the Romulan warbird changing course. Its curved path flattened out into a straight line. As it gathered speed, the ship’s image rippled and shimmered, then faded out of existence. The cloaking device had been activated.

“Dammit!” cried Miyakawa. “I risked my life to protect the Enterprise, but they’ve fallen prey to the Romulans anyway!”

“Don’t underestimate Captain Picard.”

Camenae’s smile flashed in the shadowed interior of the pod. “I think he’s constructing a trap of his own.”

If this was so, Picard’s ploy was a dangerous one.

“Good luck, Jean-Luc,” whispered Miyakawa.

“Forward thrust …” ordered Commander Taris, “… now.”

Vedoc staggered back against a metal bulkhead, unbalanced by the Haakona’s jolting acceleration to high warp speed. For a moment, before the dampening field could counteract the pressure of inertial forces against his chest, he could hardly breathe.

Others among the bridge crew seemed to be fighting for breath as well, but none of them betrayed any surprise at the painful effect, so this was no ship malfunction. Vedoc was familiar enough with the warbird class to know that Taris must have reset the inertial dampening field below standard specifications; undoubtedly this was another small shaving of energy to funnel toward the weapons system.

The crush of g-forces finally eased. With a wheezing gasp of relief, Vedoc lurched back to his position by the side of the commander’s throne.

Taris met his return with a condescending smile and said, “Of course, it’s a trap.”

Vedoc assumed a feigned look of surprise just a second too late, and then feared she would begin to suspect his deceit.

To his relief, however, the sneer on the commander’s face showed she had mistaken his bad timing for stupidity.

“A trap, Commander?” he asked with exaggerated bewilderment. Evidently she was convinced that he was an idiot and would continue to interpret all his reactions accordingly.

“Your gullibility is touching, Vedoc.”

Taris seemed to enjoy displaying her contempt for her subcommander; if she had any weakness as an officer, it was this intractable arrogance. “Picard has given away his position on purpose. The Federation is very protective of its civilian population, and they will often undertake such risks to shift combat to a more isolated area of space.

All the better; we are more than a match for the Enterprise.”

Vedoc nodded obsequiously, too distracted to contrive a suitably inane response for his idiot persona. If the commander’s custom modifications to the operating systems of the Haakona were any indication, her boast was founded on fact rather than vanity. This knowledge sharpened the young man’s sense of urgency, but over the past few days he had found no way to change the course of the events surrounding him.

Would Surak have waited passively for opportunity, or would the ancient Vulcan have made his own opportunities? Vedoc longed to ask his teacher this question, but the catacombs of Romulus were light-years away.

“Commander Taris.” He assumed the manner of an eager pup desperate to please its master.

“Give me more to do than stand by your side. Let me take even a small part in this kill.”

She snorted under her breath, but managed to contain any more blatant expression of her amusement at this offer.

With fear lodged at the base of his throat, he pushed harder. “I’m newly posted to this warbird, but I have served with distinction on other ships. If nothing else, let me assist at the auxiliary weapons station.”

“Oh, very well,” said Taris. “But if Etrajan has any cause for complaint, you will return to the bridge.”

“It shall be as you order, Commander!” he proclaimed with a flourishing salute. This archaic and melodramatic response wrung an explosion of laughter from the normally impassive crew. As if mortally embarrassed by their disdain, Vedoc fled the bridge.

His boots rang loudly on the metal decks as he raced through the main corridor of the ship’s spine. The auxiliary bay next to engineering remained unmanned until battle was imminent; if he stayed far enough ahead of Etrajan, Vedoc would have a few minutes of unsupervised time in which to act. Despite lungs that were still sore from the launch, Vedoc pushed himself to keep running. He swallowed the bitter taste of blood, yet still he did not slow his pace. An extra second could mean the difference between success and failure.

By the time the subcommander skidded into the empty alcove, he had selected his target. With a quick look to make sure he was not observed and that no stray engineering operative was in the vicinity, Vedoc grabbed a sonic wrench from a recessed shelf, then fell to his knees by the side of a forward shield generator.

A quick inspection confirmed his suspicion that Taris had implemented a number of unorthodox modifications to the deflector system as well; but for every gain there was an equivalent loss, so some other aspect of the ship’s performance must have been sacrificed for this advantage. What basic crew comfort had she deemed an expendable luxury?

Disabling the diagnostic sensors in the unit was a straightforward exercise in sabotage. As an easily bored ensign, he had repeatedly assembled and disassembled similar components while his ship patrolled the borders of the Neutral Zone. Perhaps it was those same long duty shifts that had given him time to reflect on history and philosophy.

The next step was even less complicated, but far more decisive. The power coupling leading to any shield generator was a weak link that was rarely broken; it lay too far inside the warbird’s hull to be vulnerable to enemy attack. Setting the proper frequency on the wrench, he loosened the electron-bonded connections on the cable’s casing.

All he had to do now was pull.

Is this the right path?

He had not followed the teachings of Spock long enough to know if this scheme was true to the philosophy of Surak, but Vedoc did not have years in which to master the dictates of logic. He had only a matter of minutes in which to act.

His hand hovered over the conduit.

Assuming that he had the courage to forfeit his own life for his beliefs, could logic grant him the right to kill his unwilling shipmates with the same gesture? Surak had urged peace and an end to killing, yet if Vedoc assumed a strict pacifist stand, the Haakona would obtain the means to subjugate the Federation, and millions of people on both sides of the conflict would die.

In the end, he chose according to the dictates of his own conscience, however flawed.

This is best for all my people.

Vedoc jerked on the conduit, pulling it out just far enough to loosen the connection without actually severing the current. Repeated power surges to the activated forward shield would eventually blow the two sections apart.

Springing to his feet, Vedoc reshelved the wrench. Then, with three long strides he covered the distance to the photon torpedo console. That was where Etrajan found him a few moments later.

“Don’t touch anything,” said the crewman with a dour scowl.

“I am yours to command,” replied Vedoc with a sweeping bow that hid the sweat beading on his face.

As he took his place by Etrajan’s side, Vedoc allowed himself to briefly reflect over what he had just done.

The Ko N’ya would remain with the Enterprise.

From what he had read of the blood-drenched lore of the stone, the Federation would have little cause to thank him for that bequest.

Keyda Chandat searched the night sky for a glimpse of the starship that circled high above his planet. Starfleet might consider the Miranda-class USS Sullivan to be little more than a scoutship, but the warp-powered saucer was far more impressive than any spacecraft known to the inhabitants of Dynasia.

“There, Warden,” said the Federation ambassador, pointing a finger to direct him.

“Yes, I see it.” But that was a lie; all Chandat could see were stars. He pulled his gaze back to the ground before one of his aides returned and caught him with his face upturned like a foolish child dreaming of the lost grandeurs of Iconia.

As they continued their stroll through the garden, he stared fixedly at the plants bordering the path they followed. Perhaps the beauty of the flowering aurelia would ward off the temptation of another glance upward. “Like all my people, I was expected to master some aspect of the ancient texts. My specialty was Flight Engineering, and I yearned to someday touch the wonders my Iconian ancestors had designed. When I finally faced the impossibility of that desire, the schematics of their starships flattened into mere lines on a page … and I decided to become a bureaucrat instead of a scientist.” His fingers brushed against the metallic disk dangling from a thick-linked gold chain around his neck. “Of course, I never expected the yoke of this office would become so heavy as it has this year.”

“If the Dynasian Faculty chooses to pursue admission, your children will walk the decks of our starships. They m ay even command them.”

Ambassador Tommas was quite adept at promoting the Federation agenda.

“A more likely scenario is that my children will die in civil war first,” said Chandat. His legs were cramped after hours of sitting in council, and though he was tired, it felt good to finally move freely. “Regardless of what decision the Faculty government reaches, there will be an opposing faction enraged by the outcome. If conservative forces prevail, we must resort to mass executions to repress the native insurgents; if the admission factions win, our central authority will disintegrate and anarchy will reign in its place. You have unleashed a storm that will tear my world to pieces, yet you will not commit military forces—” “Warden, our Prime Directive—” “Yes, I know all about your Prime Directive of noninterference,” he said bitterly. “Having shattered our political unity, you will step back and watch us writhe in our death throes.”

“That is unfair.” A dark color flooded over the ambassador’s pale cheeks; Chandat wondered what Human emotion that signified.

“Dean Shagret’s request for admission to the Federation constituted a formal invitation to open negotiations.”

“He did not have the authority to issue that request!”

“Just the means,” sighed Tommas. “You can hardly blame us for his duplicity.”

“No, Ambassador, I do not. My weariness is speaking louder than my reason.”

In truth, Shagret’s treason had been cleverly executed. A lifetime of exemplary administrative service had gained the man the coveted post of Dean of Communications and thus the means to send a message directly to the Federation Council. Who would have suspected that a highly placed conservative professor harbored radical insurgent sympathies?

Chandat twirled around, alarmed by the sound of someone running up behind them. In the last week, native partisans had gained access to halls and libraries, areas once thought beyond their reach, but surely not to the Faculty garden as well?

To his relief, the boy who approached was a trusted aide. Or could anyone be trusted in these dark times?

“Warden,” called out the boy. “The Faculty Council is ready to resume the debate.”

Having delivered this message, he darted back down the path. So, fear of terrorist attacks had spread to the students as well.

“May I meet with you again after this session?” the ambassador asked as they strolled back toward the flying buttresses of the Athenaeum.

“No,” said Chandat, though he longed to say otherwise. “Not until the Faculty has reached a consensus.” He had enjoyed these audiences with Tommas too much; his longing to touch lost wonders was resurfacing, clouding his judgment and his objectivity.

Or am I gaining new perspectives?

The warden mused upon this conflict of interests as he pushed his way through the crowd of professors and students that were milling by the entrance to the council chamber.

Inside, he found that the debate had resumed without him.

“Traitors! Admission to the Federation will completely undermine our authority and our financial base on this planet.”

The last of the straggling Faculty members rushed into the room to hear the Dean of Architecture berate her opponents. As warden, Chandat was responsible for maintaining order, but he decided the attempt to exercise control would only inflame tempers further. He would let Thorina rave a while longer.

“All that the Dynasian natives possess, we have given them. They were scrabbling in the dirt when we arrived, and they would be scrabbling there still if not for our superior technological knowledge.”

“That “scrabbling” populace has taken care of us for a millennia,” retorted Shagret with the smug demeanor of a self-righteous zealot.

His forehead bore the intricate ridges of a noble family, but he affected the accent of a native.

“They have grown our food, built our libraries, even bathed our very bodies; in return, we have doled out scraps of technology to them like sweet favors to an obedient child. Then we execute those who would use it without tithing our coffers.”

Thorina dismissed this defense with a contemptuous wave. “Unfettered development would have destroyed their culture.”

“We have strangled any true development centuries ago,” said Shagret. The warden noticed with some unease that several more professors had grouped around him to show support. “We play games of the mind in soaring towers but have forgotten how to turn thought into action.

The master plan of the Ancients has fallen into disuse because it called for the eventual participation of the planet’s natives; the ideals of our Iconian ancestors have been corrupted into self-serving exploitation.”

“Admission is inevitable,” cried out a junior Faculty member in Physics and the leader of a growing Pragmatist faction. “If we vote in favor of joining the Federation, we can then control the population’s access to new sources of knowledge.”

“Your na@ivet`e is stunning,” sniped Thorina. “And very dangerous.”

The one native professor on the Faculty, little more than a token until now, stood up to speak. Oomalo’s scales glistened with the iridescence of anger. “If you deny us this opportunity for advancement, my people have vowed to return to “scrabbling in the dirt,” only this time you will have to scrabble along with us for your living.

Without our labor, your fine libraries will rot and your stomachs will go empty.”

The hall erupted into chaos. Chandat’s calls for order were drowned out as the cries of outrage from those who feared the natives mixed with the cries of indignation from those who championed their cause.

What warden in the history of the Dynasians could forge a consensus from such divergent convictions? He fell silent rather than add his own voice to the tumult.

As the uproar continued unabated, a hand fell on his shoulder, and Chandat looked up to find his secretary bending down to whisper in his ear.

“Warden,” said the man as he pushed a document into Chandat’s hand. “I bring an urgent memo from Professor Manja.”

“Manja? By the Three Gates, not now!” scolded Chandat. Under the circumstances, the doddering scholar’s plaintive requests for increased funding were especially ill-timed; Iconian Literature was not a priority for this Faculty at the best of times.

“Read it, Warden!” said Ganin with an urgency that startled Chandat into compliance.

He read the message. Then he read it again.

As a man of science, the warden had never believed in miracles, but the words before him were like the answers to a prayer. There was no time to confirm the veracity of such an outrageous claim, but true or not, it would serve his immediate purpose.

Rising from his seat, the warden waved for silence.

When he finally had gained the unruly Faculty’s attention, he read them a judiciously edited version of Manja’s report.

It was met with stunned silence. For once, the assembly of professors had nothing to say.

Chandat took shameless advantage of their confusion.

“This Ko N’ya is the very Gem which Kanda Jiak used to operate the Gateway from Iconia to our world—we must act now to seize it from those who do not suspect its powers. With the Gem in our possession once again, we can regain the heights scaled by our Iconian forebearers; the planets of the Federation will come begging to us for a superior technology beyond their understanding; and all the people of Dynasia will share in wealth beyond imagining.”

Every face in the hall was turned toward him with eyes that burned with patriotic fervor.

Warden Chandat rejoiced. He had restored unity to his world after all.

END OF VOLUME II

THE DEVIL’S HEART

by Carmen Carter

Volume III of Three Volumes Pages i-ii and 345-515

For special distribution as authorized by Act of Congress under Public Law 89-522, andwiththe permission of the copyright holder.

Produced in braille for the Library of Congress, National Library Service for the Blind and Physically Handicapped, by Braille International, Inc., 1996.

THE DEVIL’S HEART

CHAPTER 23

“T’Sara.”

No … do not wake me anymore … I am so tired.

“T’Sara.”

She opened her eyes, but the man who had called her out of the healing trance was not Sorren. Of course he was not Sorren; Sorren was dead.

And I am dying even now.

The cool air of the Collector’s chamber made her shiver for the first time. She rubbed her hands together for warmth, then stopped suddenly and looked down at her palms.

Her hands were empty.

“I have it now,” said the stranger kneeling before her, and she saw that the stone was sheltered in his large, muscular hands.

“If I no longer hold the Ko N’ya,” said T’Sara, “then this must be your dream, young man.”

He had the lean, sharp look of a Vulcan until he smiled at her words. “It has been many years since I’ve been called a young man.”

“Your hair may have turned white, but you will never grow so old as I am now,” she said simply, and he met her statement with a gentle nod of acceptance. Humans were short-lived compared to her own people, but this one seemed to have made more of his brief moment than others of his race. “Why do you call me?”

“I am trying to unravel the path of the Ko N’ya, T’Sara. It began at the Guardian of Forever, but I don’t know how it left there or where it is going. Or even why it travels.”

“Greedy Human,” she sighed. “Not even I could live long enough to answer all of those questions … but I a lmost touched the truth of Where.”

“Almost?”

“In one of my last visions I saw the next step in its journey; not the end of its quest, but possibly the end of its dealings with our affairs.”

“Tell me, T’Sara!” he pleaded with an urgency that saddened her.

She pointed to the wizened body of the Collector, who crouched above them.

“Halaylah learned the ways of the stone better than anyone, but when she saw that same vision, she walled herself up alive rather than let the Ko N’ya fulfill its destiny.”

“I am not the Collector; I wish to find a way to continue what you—” “No!” she cried out. Her waning strength was not sufficient to suppress her anguish. “Do not lay the burden of your actions on me. I have too much to answer for already.”

“”I will not give it to any living being,”” he recited slowly. “I remember, those were your words.”

“And Surak’s. As a child he was far wiser than I could ever hope to be. He released the stone before it could tempt him beyond the limits of self-control; I thought I could do the same, but I waited too long. You have waited too long as well.”

The man shook his head as if angered by what he heard. “It is not evil, T’Sara.”

“No, not evil. Just dangerous.” There was not much time left to her, she realized. On the other side of this dream, death was waiting. “The Ko N’ya is not of our world; its powers were meant for other purposes. It constantly struggles to free itself from the tangle of our grasping hands.”

Overcome by weakness, her head fell back against the wall. Must the knot untie so soon?

“No, T’Sara!” he cried. “I need to know where!”

She extended an arm up toward his head, her fingers searching for the contact points on his temple.

The man stiffened but did not resist her; he had mind-melded before.

She reached inward.

When their thoughts were one, she showed him the place the constellation of stars and the speeding messenger that waited for the Ko N’ya.

There!

Her arm dropped down, breaking the link. The fingers of her hand flexed, then clenched like steel clamps around the cloth of his shirt. With the last of her strength, she pulled him so close he could feel her dry breath on his face as she whispered, “Remember this about the Ko N’ya … the blood never stops flowing.”

Picard stumbled out of the shadows of the Collector’s chamber into the ruined plaza surrounding the fallen tower.

Staring up into the night sky, he tried to make sense of the stars. They were all wrong, and it was so very important that they be right. He reached out his hands to move them into their proper positions, to arrange them according to the image T’Sara had revealed to him …

… but his fingers hit against the transparent barrier of an angled ceiling window.

He was standing in the middle of his cabin.

Despite this abrupt awakening, his sense of urgency remained somehow he must fix the stars in their place. Stepping over to his desk, Picard snatched up a data padd and stylus and began to sketch a series of small circles. Even as the meaning of what he drew faded out of his understanding, he fought to preserve the image that lingered in his mind’s eye.

His hand finally stopped, but he knew he was not quite finished. There was still something missing, an element that had given this scene a distinctive configuration.

Not another star …

… a comet.

He drew a flurry of lines to mark the comet’s streaming tail, and the sketch was complete.

With the padd gripped tightly in one hand, Picard walked back to the threshold of his bedroom. If the Heart had come to life during the night, he had missed its shimmering display. He could barely make out its rounded silhouette on a low table by his bed.

Picard whispered into the shadows, “If I am to take you to this place, I must know why.”

CHAPTER 24

The bridge was always quiet during the night shift.

Too quiet, as far as Riker was concerned.

Although a full crew complement was posted at all the duty stations, the men and women talked in low voices and went about their work with a more subdued manner than their day-shift counterparts. The hushed atmosphere made Riker feel uncomfortably self-conscious. He was a large man who was accustomed to moving freely and taking up space; any attempt to rein in his body robbed him of composure.

During the day, Riker would have sprawled in the captain’s chair and called out for any information he wanted, and he would have conducted discussions across the length of the bridge. During the night, however, he felt constrained by the lull around him and chose to walk from station to station to gather reports.

The first officer even shortened his stride as he walked up a side ramp to the tactical station on the aft deck, but his boots still thumped too heavily.

“Status, Lieutenant?” Riker asked in a voice that was too loud.

“Shields raised; energy reserves holding steady at ninety-five percent,” said Worf.

His voice was deeper than Riker’s, yet it seemed to travel less far. “Sensor scans do not reveal pursuit by any kind of vessel.”

“So the captain’s decoy plan doesn’t appear to be working. That’s assuming someone really did attack Starbase 193.”

To Riker’s consternation, Worf’s eyes narrowed to baleful slits. By nature, Klingons were fiercely loyal to their commanding officer, but Worf was especially sensitive to any implied criticism of Captain Picard. “Do not forget the report of Romulan incursion into Federation space.”

“An unconfirmed sighting of a warbird, with no indication of where it might be headed …” The first officer shrugged. “Well, I suppose it’s possible.”

“We must remain vigilant.”

“Absolutely,” said Riker. Fortunately, this display of enthusiasm seemed to appease Worf sufficiently to ease the belligerent expression off his face. “Carry on, Lieutenant.”

Riker had just turned away to continue his tour around the bridge when he heard the telltale trill of an incoming message registering on the communications console. He waited for the security chief’s explanation before taking another step.

“Commander, we are receiving a scrambled transmission …” Worf scanned the signal packet information, “… from Commander Miyakawa, currently aboard the Portsmouth.”

“Well it’s about time!” All across the bridge, heads snapped around at the sound of Riker’s cry, but he no longer cared whether he was conspicuous or not.

“Unscrambling in progress.”

Moving to Worf’s side, Riker eagerly read the text as it scrolled across a small window.

Even before he had finished reading all of Miyakawa’s account, the first officer reached for his comm link. “Captain Picard to the bridge.”

Then Riker turned to the security chief and, taking a deep breath, said, “Raise shields … and go to yellow alert.”

The tranquillity of the night shift was shattered as amber panels of light throbbed on and off and sirens whooped to life. Complacent crewmembers jumped to attention or scurried to secure their stations, and Riker knew that a thousand sleeping people throughout the decks of the starship had just been rudely awakened.

We have become a magnet for trouble.

The captain’s ominous words echoed in Riker’s mind. With hands gripping the aft deck rail, he leaned forward to stare at the main viewscreen.

One cubic meter of space looked very much like another, but somewhere in that tenuous soup of interstellar gases was a cloaked Romulan warbird, an invisible raptor in search of an all too visible prey.

Deanna Troi struggled to stifle a yawn, but fortunately the ensign sitting across from her was too absorbed in his own misery to notice her momentary lapse of attention. He was hunched forward on the edge of the sofa, staring down at the carpet as he spilled out the details of a failed romance.

“How can I continue living when I’ve lost the one person that gave my existence meaning?”

His roommate had been sufficiently alarmed by this sentiment to roust the empath out of her bed in the middle of the night for a counseling session. However, Troi had quickly sensed that Asadourian was not truly suicidal, merely histrionic. Perhaps she would pass his name on to Beverly Crusher so he could indulge his flair for melodrama on the stage of the ship’s theater.

Certain that the ensign had unburdened himself of the worst of his grievances against his former true love, the counselor gently urged him to return to his cabin.

“You’ll feel better in the morning,” she assured him as they walked out of her office. She could tell that he didn’t believe her, but then lovesick young men never did.

As Troi strolled down the quiet corridors of the ship, she admitted to a slightly wistful envy of Asadourian’s passion; it was incredibly disruptive, yet so much fun, to fall madly in love. Many years ago, she herself had experienced a considerable amount of emotional turmoil in connection with a certain tall, dark Starfleet officer.

“And stay out of trouble until that heals!”

Picking up her pace at the sound of the familiar voice, Troi turned a corner in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of red and blue as Beverly Crusher ducked back into sickbay.

Ensign Brengle, the recipient of the doctor’s commandment, was limping away down the corridor.

On the spur of the moment, Troi decided to take a short detour. After all, as long as she was awake, she could attend to certain frictions between the captain and his chief medical officer.

The outer ward of sickbay was empty of patients, but several nurses were clearing the area of used medical supplies, and Crusher was standing in the middle of the room frowning at the data padd in her hand.

“Busy night?” asked Troi.

“You could say that,” said Crusher, with a weary sigh. “No major emergencies, just a steady stream of minor injuries from freak accidents. For instance, did you know there’s a holodeck scenario for riding dinosaurs?”

“That sounds like one of Wesley’s ideas.”

“Probably,” said the doctor.

“But surely he wouldn’t construct a dangerous program?”

With a shake of her head, Crusher said, “Oh, not even Marte blamed the computer for her accident.

The fail-safe parameters can protect you from being trampled on by an allosaurus, but they can’t stop you from tripping over a Jurassic vine and twisting your ankle.”

“Interesting setting, but I think I’ll stick to more modern sports.” Troi assumed her best pretense of nonchalance to ask, “When is your shift over?”

Crusher scratched a quick note on the tablet, then handed it to one of the departing nurses. “Right now.”

They were finally alone, which gave Troi the opportunity to ask her next question. “So are you going to have breakfast with the captain this morning?”

“No,” said Crusher emphatically. “In fact, I have no intention of meeting the captain for any meal whatsoever in the foreseeable future.”

“I see,” said Troi. “He hasn’t apologized for your broken dinner engagement.”

“He hasn’t even remembered that we made plans.”

“Even so, I wish you would make a point to meet with him soon.” Troi held up a hand to forestall an indignant protest. “He doesn’t seem to be sleeping well lately.”

“Maybe he has a guilty conscience.”

“Actually, Beverly,” said the counselor, “I’m getting a little worried about him, and so is W. The captain’s interest in the Heart has become so intense that I’m inclined to term it an obsession.”

“Are you serious?” Crusher folded her arms over her chest in an unconscious gesture of distrust.

“I am very serious.” Fortunately, she was able to say this with complete sincerity. “I’m not ready to request a formal medical exam, but I’d like your professional opinion on his condition.”

“Off the record?”

“Yes.”

“All right, Deanna.” Crusher unlocked her arms and shoved her hands deep into her coat pockets. “You win. I’ll stop by the captain’s cabin this—” Her last words were drowned out by the intrusive wail of yellow alert sirens.

So much for that clever plan, thought Deanna ruefully. And so much for any more rest that night.

The fact that Data did not sleep was well-known throughout the ship, so it was not unusual for the android to have visitors at any time of day or night. Both Geordi La Forge and Miles O’Brien were in the habit of stopping by Data’s cabin if they had worked late and were in the mood for company.

Captain Picard, however, was not known for making impromptu visits; yet, there he stood in the hall just outside the android’s quarters, fingers rapping impatiently on the back of a data padd.

“Come in, sir,” said Data, stepping back from the threshold to let his commanding officer enter.

Picard advanced a few feet into the room, just enough to allow the doors to close behind his back. “I need your assistance, Data.”

“Certainly, Captain. I—” The android stopped in mid-sentence to peer down at the tablet that Picard had thrust into his hands. After a brief study of the crude graphic on the screen, Data ventured a hypothesis. “These circles represent stars?”

“Yes, of course they’re stars. This is a map of a particular location that … well, that is important for me to identify. So, I need you to ascertain the coordinates of this site.”

Data slowly rotated the padd. “A two-dimensional representation of three-dimensional spatial arrangements is insufficient for this task. I will need a reference point of some kind.”

“There isn’t one,” said the captain with an impatient shake of his head. “Except for the comet.”

“Captain, comets are extremely common.

To date, the Federation registry lists approximately—” “I’m well aware of the difficulties, Mr.

Data. However, it is imperative that you establish just where this spot,” Picard tapped emphatically in the center of the map, “can be found.”

“I will do my best.” The placement of the circles formed a distinctive pattern. Data blinked in an involuntary reaction to the activation of his neural subprocessors and confirmed that the arrangement of stars was not a constellation that he could immediately match with any images stored in his memory. “But this could take a very long time. On the order of several weeks, if not months.”

Picard frowned his disapproval of the estimate.

Snatching the padd out of Data’s grasp, the captain stared down at the sketch. “If only I could remember …” His eyes closed. His fingers traced over the figures he had drawn.

Data waited patiently.

“We were with the Collector … the vision was given to her …” Picard’s eyes flew open.

“Presume that this is a constellation that can be seen from the surface of Atropos if you were standing in the plaza where you found T’Sara’s body.”

“Thank you,” said Data. “That specification should provide adequate information to narrow my search parameters.”

“Fine, fine, just let me know as soon—” “Captain Picard to the bridge.”

Before Picard could answer Riker’s hail, yellow alert sirens signaled a significant change in the ship’s status.

“Our adversary has surfaced,” said Picard, and Data noted the look of triumph that lit his face, if only for a moment. Flinging aside the data padd that had absorbed his attention until now, Picard spun on his heel and marched out of the cabin.

Data advanced through the doorway in the captain’s wake, then came to a sudden halt just in time to avoid a collision. Picard had stopped in the middle of the corridor; he was poised for movement, yet hesitated as if unsure of which direction he should take.

“Captain?”

“I left something in my cabin …” said Picard, looking back over his shoulder. The flashing alert lights seemed to highlight the hollows beneath his eyes. “… but it will have to wait until later. There really isn’t time.”

Despite the declarative form, Data sensed an implied question in the captain’s statement.

“No, it does not appear that there is any margin for delay.”

Picard bolted into motion again. “Then what are you waiting for?” he called out as he raced down the corridor.

Data scrambled to catch up.

Mission briefings were usually held in the sequestered comfort of the observation lounge, but by unspoken agreement, Riker conducted this session in the command center of the bridge. Tonight, the time to move from one room of the ship to another was a luxury they could not afford.

The first officer leaned forward, hands planted on his knees, as he related his knowledge of the approaching danger to the captain and Data; Worf loomed above the seated group from his aerie on the aft deck.

“According to Commander Miyakawa’s account,” said Riker, “the warbird was still circling Starbase 193 when we broadcast the distress message to the Portsmouth. The Romulans cloaked moments later, and presumably departed the area on an intercept course with the Enterprise.”

Data canted his head to one side as his positronic brain incorporated time and distance into his calculations. “If that is the case, I estimate that the warbird could approach firing range of the Enterprise within seventeen minutes.”

“That’s too close for comfort,” said Riker with an involuntary glance at the main viewscreen.

“Bear in mind, Commander, that this conjecture is based on a theoretical performance rate of one hundred percent. Depending on the degree of efficiency of the ship and its crew, actual values will fall short of that figure.”

“For safety’s sake,” said Picard, “let us presume they are very efficient. Helm, increase speed to warp nine.”

“Aye, sir.” The android swiveled his console chair back into a forward position as he implemented the captain’s directive. Somewhere down in engineering, Geordi had anticipated this demand because the warp engines immediately purred into high speed.

Picard called up to the aft deck next.

“Lieutenant Worf, reduce power expenditures throughout the ship and channel all available energy to the deflector shields.”

Pitching his voice low, so only the captain could hear him, Riker asked, “Do you think we can outrun them, sir?”

“Probably not,” said Picard. “They have too great a lead already. However, cloaking devices are a heavy drain on a warbird’s resources, so we can make them pay a high price for this pursuit. If they stay invisible, they will drain their weaponry system.”

“And if they drop the cloaking field, we have a target we can see.”

“Exactly, Number One.” Picard rubbed a hand over his face, as if to wipe away fatigue, then fixed his gaze on the viewscreen. “The rest is a waiting game.”

At close quarters, Riker could hear a faint rasp in the captain’s voice. Picard’s eyes were rimmed with red, another sign that he hadn’t gotten much rest tonight; but then, if he had been asleep in his cabin when yellow alert sounded, his arrival to the bridge would have been delayed by at least a few more minutes. No, Riker suspected the captain had already been awake when he received the call to duty.

“Captain,” rumbled Worf. “Long-range sensors detect an approaching vessel … intercept in fifteen seconds.”

“Go to red alert, Lieutenant,” said Picard grimly, and in an instant the bridge was bathed in red light.

Riker shook his head in disbelief. “If it’s the Romulans, they’re well ahead of schedule.”

“It appears I was in error,” said Data, looking back over his shoulder. Riker hadn’t intended to slight his estimate, but the android evidently felt the need to justify his miscalculation. “Apparently they have sacrificed the stealth afforded by a cloaking device for speed and strength of arms.”

“Closing at five hundred thousa nd kilometers …” warned Worf.

Riker saw Picard nod to himself, a sign he had chosen his strategy for the coming conflict.

“On my signal,” said the captain, “go to quarter-impulse speed. With luck, they’ll overshoot us by a decade.”

“Four hundred thousand kilometers … three hundred thousand …”

“Now!” said Picard.

The Enterprise’s sudden drop out of high warp drive sent a shudder rippling through the saucer hull. On the main viewscreen, Riker could see the warbird flashing past, but too slowly for warp speed. “Dammit! They’ve second-guessed us.”

“But at full-impulse speed, they still overshot,” said Picard. They watched the Romulan ship as it circled back to confront them. “It gives us a few extra seconds.”

“Phasers locking on target,” announced Worf.

“Fire at will, Lieutenant.”

Riker gripped the arms of his command chair in anticipation of the coming assault.

The Klingon unleashed a barrage from the phasers, but the warbird charged straight through the curtain of fire. Then, as the ships closed, the space between them burned with a dazzling crisscross of energy beams. The bridge rocked as the starship’s shields absorbed a series of blows.

“Evasive maneuvers,” ordered Picard.

The Enterprise responded with quicksilver movements under the helm’s control, yet the Romulan pilot was equally adept. The two ships twirled through space, paired like dancers who never pulled too far apart.

Warbirds were not known for their grace, but this ship was different, realized Riker, and the difference could be deadly.

“Deflector power down to fifty-seven percent,” called out Ensign Taylor from the aft deck.

Again and again, Riker was tossed and shaken as the Romulan phasers pounded against the starship’s shields. Worf scored as many hits on the warbird, but only a scattered few actually touched the warbird’s hull.

“Minor damage to their starboard wing,” said the Klingon.

However, his announcement was quickly followed by another damage report from the ensign.

“Shield failure imminent in Engineering, Sector 52.”

“Auxiliary power supplies are almost depleted.” Geordi’s intercom voice barely cut through the battle’s thunder. “We can’t increase shield strength without compromising life support.”

“Shields gone on Primary Hull, Sector 36.”

As the damage reports flooded in from all decks, Riker saw a pattern emerge. The ship was being attacked in noncritical areas where the deflector shielding was most vulnerable to strong blows.

“What are they doing?” cried Riker. “Taking us apart bolt by bolt?”

“They’re trying to cripple us,” said Picard, “so they can recover the Heart intact.”

The Enterprise was rocked by yet another hit. Worf’s counter charge hit the attacker broadside, but its main shields were still holding.

Although warbirds were the most formidable vessels of their class, built solely for combat, the Enterprise should have proved to be a strong opponent. However, this particular Romulan ship was tougher than most.

“Hull breach on Deck 38!”

“Shield failure imminent in Engineering, Sector 59.”

“We could use a miracle right about now,” said Riker through gritted teeth.

“If we cannot win this battle,” said Picard, “then we must lose it completely; the Romulans must never be allowed to gain possession of the Heart.” Drawing a deep breath, he said, “Number One, prepare for initiation of a self-destruct—” “Captain,” called out Data. “Sensors detect a gap in their deflectors … a forward shield has collapsed.”

Riker jumped to his feet. “Worf! Aim for that—” But the Klingon needed no urging. With the swift instincts of a born warrior, he had already seized the advantage.

A single arrow of phaser fire flew straight through the chink in the Romulan ship’s defenses and drilled a white hot hole through its hull to the center of the warp drive engines.

“Got them!” exclaimed the security chief with an intimidating display of pointed teeth.

The warbird shuddered, then bucked, as a chain reaction of internal explosions ripped through the length of its frame. A spidery web of cracks radiated across its hull and licking flames laced with roiling black smoke streamed from the breaches.

“You were saying, Captain?” asked Riker.

“I can’t recall.” Picard rose to stand beside his first officer. As they stared at the ruined carcass of their defeated enemy, he said, “You’re the one who asked for a miracle, Number One.”

“I’ll just have to remember to ask sooner, next time.” And yet Riker couldn’t help wondering if any of the dead soldiers that once walked the decks of the warbird had also prayed, in vain, for a miracle.

CHAPTER 25

Beverly Crusher was the last of the senior officers to slip into place around the conference table but the first to be fixed with Picard’s intense questioning gaze.

“Doctor?”

Although she had brought a medical padd with her, the report it contained was still fresh in her mind.

She recited the statistics to a somber audience.

“Reports of minor injuries are still filtering in from all decks, but the current count of notable casualties is thirty-five. Intensive care has two crewmen who are in critical condition and another five in serious condition; twelve patients are in the general sickbay ward; the rest have been released after treatment.”

Fighting against a feeling of defeat, she finished with, “There were three fatalities.”

This last statement keyed the tension in the captain’s shoulders even tighter, but he made no comment beyond a curt nod of acknowledgment.

Picard turned to Geordi La Forge next.

“Maintenance teams have repaired the hull breach,” said the engineer, “and Deck 38 is already repressurized, but we’ve uncovered serious damage to several starboard deflector shield amplifiers and at least two gravity field generators.”

Crusher half-listened to Geordi’s unfolding report, but her attention was focused mainly on Picard. Troi’s concern had been well-founded; it was difficult to assess the captain’s condition from across the length of the conference table, but what she could see from here was disturbing.

At first glance, even as she had entered the room, Crusher had been struck by the haggard look of his face. Picard was a lean man at the best of times, but now the bones of his skull were far too prominent, and the skin that covered them was pale and stretched taut. From previous experience, the doctor knew that prolonged stress had a tendency to melt flesh off his frame, but she had never seen him develop a nervous tic before.

Yet she noted that Picard’s hands were in constant subtle motion, with fingers twitching or tracing patterns on the surface of the table.

Crusher waited until the round of reports had concluded and the other officers were filing out of the room before she approached the captain. Picard was still sitting at the head of the table, fingers drumming a repetitive rhythm, but he had turned to face the window. His eyes were flitting from side to side as he scanned the vista of stars. She wondered what he was looking for.

“Captain.”

His head jerked up, as if pulled against his will.

“Yes, Doctor?” His query was clipped with impatience.

One look at the stubborn set of his jaw, and Crusher realized that gentle persuasion would only waste her breath. “You look like death warmed over.

My medical recommendation is that you get some rest, immediately.”

As she expected, he shook his head. “In light of Mr. La Forge’s damage reports, Doctor, I don’t have the luxury of abandoning my duties to satisfy your whims.

Please direct your excess medical passion to the patients in intensive care.”

Crusher drew a sharp breath, stung by the cutting remark. Yet she also recognized that Picard’s bristling anger was probably just another symptom of his exhaustion. Before she could frame a tactful reply, the doctor felt someone brush against her arm; Riker had stepped back from the doorway to stand beside her.

“Captain,” said the first officer with an affable grin. “I don’t think a quick nap could be construed as abandoning your duties. In fact, this would be a good opportunity to take a break so you’ll be refreshed by the time Geordi has a new status report.”

Crusher rushed in before Picard could debate this point. “And if you’ve been having trouble sleeping, I can prescribe appropriate medication.” This was the obvious recommendation under the circumstances, yet she knew that Picard would perceive this suggestion as a veiled threat.

The captain shifted his glance from her over to Riker, then back again to her. Rising from his chair, Picard said, “No drugs will be necessary, Doctor. I will go to my cabin without further protest.”

“Very sensible,” she said, with what she hoped was a lighter tone, but Picard’s stoic reserve did not soften. He stalked from the room without uttering another word.

Crusher turned to the first officer. The grin on his face had faded away. “How long has he been this way, Will?”

“He’s grown noticeably worse in the last day,” said Riker. “But I think the trouble started when he took possession of the Heart.”

Crusher sighed. “I was afraid you’d say that.

Unfortunately, this is one condition I don’t know how to treat.”

Picard stripped off his uniform jacket and tossed it aside. This would be his one concession to comfort for tonight. Doctor Crusher could order him to his cabin, but now that he was in the privacy of his own quarters, he had no intention of following her instructions any further.

Sleep was out of the question. Even closing his eyes was asking too much when reminders of disaster continued to mock him at every turn. After leaving the conference room, he had walked through smoke-filled corridors and listened to the crackling exchanges of repair crews on the intercom; the deck had lurched several times as a gravity stabilizer weakened, then failed; and now, Picard could see the blackened hulk of the Romulan warbird drifting in space just outside his cabin window.

Perhaps Counselor Troi would argue that it was symbolic of his success in defeating an enemy.

She would remind him that not all conflicts could be resolved peacefully and that sometimes even the right decisions could not lead to triumph against overwhelming odds. To him, however, the wreckage was a reminder of his failure to protect his own ship.

The Enterprise was crippled, stranded far outside Federation territory, and he alone was responsible for this situation.

His glance dropped down to the Heart, a crude centerpiece for the elegant glass-topped table that held it.

What if this quest for the Heart’s destination was a fantasy created within his own mind? If that was the case, the entire starship crew would pay the price for his self-delusion. On the other hand, what if the Heart could help pull the Enterprise out of this predicament?

You have waited too long …

T’Sara had advised him to give up the stone, or at least to stop making use of its powers.

Yet, so far he had only taken part in the dreams. Surely there was no harm in that? And perhaps the dreams could show him the way to safety.

He stooped to pick up the Heart, his hands eagerly closing around its familiar shape. If there was even a chance of that being true, he must take the risk.

With measured steps and grim determination, Picard carried the stone into his bedroom. He placed it at the head of his bed, then slipped beneath the covers without bothering to undress.

Closing his eyes, he waited impatiently for that night’s dream to claim him …

The morning sun was still low in the Delula sky, but he could feel sweat beading on the back of his neck. He shivered, chilled by a cool breeze brushing over damp skin, and rubbed his hands dry on the front of his thin shirt. There was nothing he could do to quell the fluttering emptiness in his stomach. He told himself the ache was hunger, but the very thought of food brought a rush of bile up his throat. He swallowed it down and fought against the impulse to gag.

“Nervous, Picard?” Chiang’s inquiry sounded sympathetic, but his mouth curled ever so slightly at one corner. His body was solid, thicker than Picard’s wiry form; his blue shorts and shirt were crisp and dry.

“No, I’m not nervous.” The hoarseness of his reply betrayed the raw burn in the back of his throat.

“No, of course not. After all, you’re going to win this race.” Chiang’s smile deepened into a sneer as he tossed a white towel into the air.

“Here, before you flood the field.”

Picard lunged forward to catch the towel before it could fall to the ground, a certain offense for a lowly first-year cadet. By the time he straightened up again, Chiang was walking back to a tight knot of upperclassmen gathered by the field house.

“Damn you,” Picard muttered softly under his breath, but he took no pleasure in the curse.

He cast a furtive glance at the cadets around him, wondering how many had noticed the exchange and understood its significance. They seemed intent on their own business Drager and T’Soron were on the grass, arms and legs waving gracefully back and forth as they stretched hamstrings and triceps; Miyakawa was knotting her hair into an intricate braid that would keep her long black tresses out of her face; and Gareth was fastening and refastening his shoes for the perfect fit that always eluded him.

“Too tight this time?”

The young Andorian looked up from his task.

“Too loose,” he corrected and cast his gaze quickly downward again. It was the shortest conversation they had ever had; usually Gareth was tediously chatty.

Picard felt himself flush with shame, and the wave of warmth drove more beads of sweat out of his skin.

So, Gareth had heard.

Everyone at the Academy had probably heard.

He mopped his face and neck with Chiang’s towel and raked back a wayward curl of hair.

Well, there was no help for it now. The boast had been made and was beyond recall.

He heard the crunching tread of boots on grass coming up behind him, and his muscles tensed and tightened, counteracting the effects of his recent warm-up.

“Jean-Luc.”

“Oh, hello, Walker.” He continued to dry himself off, rubbing first at one arm then another, careful not to turn and look his friend in the face.

Walker Keel lacked flair, some cadets even implied he lacked the fire necessary for command, but at this moment Picard would gladly trade all of his own brash bravado for just an ounce of Walker’s quiet dignity.

“We’ll be waiting for you at the finish line.”

His hands clenched and twisted the soft cloth into a knot. “Jack’s here, too?”

He caught Walker’s nod out of the corner of his eye. “The crowd is already pretty thick, so we’re taking turns holding our space.”

“Actually, I’d rather … it would be easier …” Picard couldn’t finish, couldn’t find the words to tell them both to go away. Neither of them had reproached him for his arrogance, for the absolute lunacy of his drunken outburst, yet facing them at the end of this race would be as great a trial as suffering the scorn of the entire Academy for the remainder of the term. “You know something, Walker?

I talk too much.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that,” said Walker with a slow smile. He thumped Picard’s back with an open hand, a gesture of both exasperation and affection, then strolled away, melting into the stream of spectators rushing to take their places along the path.

“Starters up!”

Blue-clad figures all across the field froze in mid-motion at the announcement, then responded to the call with a leisurely approach to the broad white line that marked the beginning of the 40k marathon. Picard mimicked their nonchalance, but his gait felt stiff and unnatural. He longed for another stretching session, but there was no time left.

As fifty-three pairs of feet stepped up to the starting line, he had one last stabbing thought What if Boothby had heard?

The sharp crack of the starting gun caught him unprepared. He pushed off last, almost immediately trailing behind the throng of runners who jostled for position and pace. He was a front-runner— he’d always been a front-runner—but his concentration had flagged during that critical instant when reflexes triggered muscles into a first burst of speed. Faced with an unexpected wall of pumping legs and flailing arms, he faltered again, then braced himself for a collision with any runners moving up behind him. He risked a darting backward glance.

There were no other runners. He was last.

No freshman has ever won the Academy Marathon … until now!

Those echoing words—his own foolish words—set fire to his lagging feet. Enough of this self-pitying indulgence; he had a long race to run. Shoving aside despair, he narrowed his mind to the demands of the moment. The track surface beneath his thin-soled shoes was firm with a slight texture that provided traction without gripping for too long. He barely registered the towering forest trees that lined the first portion of the winding path, but he welcomed their cool shade as exertion warmed his body.

For the first two kilometers he worked at loosening his tight muscles and setting a rhythm to his breathing. In the process, he passed six runners out of the fifty-three, counting them off one by one. By the fifth kilometer he was sufficiently centered to ignore such petty distractions and his weaving progress around slower runners was unconscious, the automatic avoidance of obstacles.

When he broke out of the forest into bright sunlight and baking heat, he spied the quarter-marker of the Delula course. The air was filled with the sounds of cheers from the waiting crowds, and he had only to reach out his arm to have a cup of cool water eagerly thrust into his hand. He drank greedily of the first offering and reached out again for some more.

A fresh burst of cheers, then another, signaled the appearance of more runners from the forest track.

At least I’m not last.

The memory of his late start propelled him ahead even faster, but his breathing remained steady.

Another cup was thrust into his hand, and he poured its contents over his head before he succumbed to the temptation to drink too much.

He began to run for the sheer joy of it.

By the time Picard reached the halfway marker, he had finally passed Gareth and seen Miyakawa crumple to the ground with a cramp in her calf.

All the other freshmen cadets were running behind him on the course.

At the three-quarter mark, he approached a tight knot of five upperclassmen that blocked his way. He could hear the sound of their breathing, ragged with the effort of keeping pace with each other.

They were all pushing themselves a little too hard and a little too fast by their determination to break free from the pack. Picard swung left and drove himself forward through a narrow gap on the edge of the path.

He caught a glimpse of faces twisted with annoyance at the sudden increase in congestion. An elbow knocked against his side as one of the less generous runners moved to keep him back in place. The unwarranted jostling fueled his next burst of speed.

He was running alone now.

The level path gave way to the rise and swell of gentle hills. In his training runs he had fought to keep a steady pace as he worked the slopes, but now he used the pull of gravity to gather another sliver of speed as he sped downward, then pushed to maintain the new pace on his climb up the next rise. Sweat poured off him, stinging his eyes with its salty flavor; the soft cloth of his clothes chafed a gainst damp skin.

The slight tingle in his thigh and calf muscles would turn to a tremble if he misjudged his endurance and pushed too hard. He tossed his head, slinging back the hair plastered to his forehead, and then threw off the intrusion of physical discomfort with an equivalent mental shrug. It was important to feel his body at work, and that included the pain, but that knowledge must not distract him from the run.

He crested another hill and spotted a string of four runners just ahead. Chiang was leading them, but even as Picard watched, the others were challenging his position. Telegar, the fastest of the Andorians, must be the woman in second place.

The other two cadets were probably Dorgath and Stemon, both favored to win the race and both pushing the front-runners to exhaust themselves on the final stretch.

As he sped steadily onward, driving one foot after the next, his breath heaving in and out of his chest, a dull background roar sorted itself into the sound of a cheering crowd, and he realized that there were throngs of people lining the path up the next slope.

No, not just the next slope. He was approaching Mount Bonnell, the last hill of the marathon.

No freshman has ever won the Academy Marathon … until now!

Perhaps it hadn’t been such an empty boast after all. Reaching deep inside himself for the last of his reserves, Picard propelled himself faster down the slope. The ground leveled beneath his pumping feet. He passed Dorgath just as the ground began to rise again. Chiang was ahead, having fallen back to third place.

Momentum carried him up the first few meters of the hill without effort. When the weight of the climb finally hit him, he expected to slow down, but he was locked into a rhythm and grace of movement that remained steady and controlled.

Then the terror struck.

It happens here, soon.

It was as if his mind were detaching from his body, pulling back to observe and comment on the scene.

I’ve done this before. This run, this dream.

Chiang had been flagging for the past few minutes. He was easily overtaken.

Oh, god, it’s a very bad dream.

Telegar and Stemon remained ahead. As Picard pulled even with the Andorian, the dread deepened and clarified.

I stumble. Any step now, I stumble.

He willed himself to wake up, to stop from reliving the humiliation of that one false step. The last few minutes of the race stretched out before him like a rack. How many times had he tortured himself with these memories?

All the false sympathy, all the pity.

But they were relieved to see me fail. I came too close to winning.

Now only Stemon remained. He had a Vulcan’s superior muscular strength and stamina, but the humidity of the Delula atmosphere clogged his lungs and reduced their efficiency. If his keen hearing picked up the sound of Picard’s approach, he was still unable to summon more speed. The gap between them narrowed.

Now? Two steps from now?

Picard tried to brace himself for the sharp jolt that would signal his loss of footing, but he could no longer control his body, could hardly even feel it, and thus he could not avert the disaster about to happen.

The scenario varied. Sometimes the jarring fall landed him at Chiang’s feet, at other times he actually took the lead before dropping to the ground, breath knocked out of his air-starved lungs, as the four upperclassmen thundered past him. The countless variations had plagued his sleep so many times and for so many years that he couldn’t remember when the real fall had actually taken place. Doubtless any number of his classmates at the Academy would remember the true accounting of events.

Even fifth place would have been a cause for celebration … if not for my boast.

That was the true misstep. Perhaps his subconscious had searched for a metaphor to frame his arrogance. Certainly this was no less plausible an explanation for tripping on a smooth path than the imaginary pebble he had conjured afterward to explain his sudden failure.

His body passed Stemon.

Now. It must come now. I’ve never gone beyond this point.

But he crested over the hill and began the descent at a breakneck speed that would have tangled his feet if this hadn’t been a dream.

Physical sensation returned, and the rush of air against his outstretched arms felt like the lift of wind on the wings of a hawk flying through the sky.

The cheering that had sent him up Mount Bonnell to overtake the other runners was nothing compared to what met him on this side. He was buffeted by the clamoring sound of massed voices.

The white ribbon over the finish line rippled and waved a greeting to him, waiting for his embrace.

He closed his eyes, too sick with dread to watch any longer.

No. This is more than I can bear. To lose when I’m this close …

Then the ribbon cut across his chest.

Picard woke screaming in the dark. He threw himself forward to a sitting position, his chest heaving.

His undershirt and pants were drenched with sweat, as were the sheets wrapped around him like the torn tails of the ribbon at the finish line.

I won.

He gulped for breath and mopped his face with the sleeve of his tunic. Sweat was still trickling down into his eyes; he rubbed his hand over the smooth scalp of his head.

Of course I won. I only lose the race in my dreams … or is it the other way around?

The two memories battled for predominance in his mind, shimmering back and forth from one reality to the other, each remembered with a clarity that was unsettling.

“Computer …”

His hoarse whisper was too garbled to activate the system. Picard cleared his throat and tried again. “Computer, who won the Starfleet Academy marathon at Delula II in the year 2324?”

The whir of access links was followed by the answer.

“The Academy Marathon of Delula II was won by Freshman Cadet Jean-Luc Picard.”

Yes. Of course. Had he actually doubted it?

Throwing back the damp covers, Picard scrambled out of bed to search for some clean, dry clothing. His walk through the cabin brought back another flood of memories. He had collapsed two steps beyond the finish line, only to be lifted high into the air by Jack Crusher and Walker Keel and seemingly every other cadet in the freshman class. Even Commander Hansen had been in the crowd that day, taking note, though it would be years later before the newly promoted Admiral Hansen would reveal that fact to his prot@eg`e.

In under two hours, a freshman’s arrogant boast had been miraculously transformed into a confident prediction, adding another achievement to his growing reputation as a cadet to be reckoned with.

Picard opened the top drawer of his dresser and plunged his hands deep inside, but instead of pulling out clothes, he removed a small, flat case. He hadn’t opened it in years, hadn’t felt the need. A flick of his thumb triggered the lid.

The medal was shinier than he had remembered, and smaller. His fingers traced over the etched words.

It was cold, too.

Yes, of course I won.

Yet he had never taken any pleasure in this prize, only relief. The close escape from public humiliation had sharpened his recognition of the easy arrogance that courted such disasters. He had always been grateful that this lesson in humility had remained a private one. The empty boast wouldn’t haunt him for four solid years, tucked into the sly sneers and whispered insults of fellow cadets. Chiang had turned the remainder of that term into a living hell …

Stop it! I won. The rest was only a nightmare.

The false memories that followed that fall were surprisingly sharp. He took a deep shuddering breath, and they began to fade.

His fingers closed tightly over the metal disk, its thin edges cutting into his skin. The medal was real. It was proof.

I won. I must have won. The Heart had nothing to do with this.

CHAPTER 26

Keyda Chandat was robbed of breath as he contemplated the beauty of Dynasia as seen from space. Roiling white clouds ran like liquid glaze over the polished emerald gem that was his planet. He had been awed by images of Iconia in the ancient texts, but he had never dreamed that this new world was Iconia’s equal in splendor.

“Do you ever grow tired of this sight, Captain Mycelli?” the warden asked. “Is it now so commonplace that your people are not moved by such wonders?”

“No,” said the dapper Federation officer. His eyes were fixed on the bridge’s viewscreen as well. “And I shall resign my commission if it ever fails to thrill me.”

Ambassador Tommas was too clever a diplomat to miss an opening. “Perhaps continued visits to this starship will demonstrate some of the benefits of Federation membership to the Faculty.”

“And I would be delighted to personally conduct a tour of the USS Sullivan before the council convenes,” said Mycelli, graciously following her lead.

The warden accepted the offer with a bow. “If anything can melt the stony hearts of our conservatives, Captain, it would be your vessel.” The sentiment Chandat had just uttered was sincere, and therefore doubly disarming. They suspected nothing.

“Captain,” said First Officer Dier, approaching the trio that stood on the elevated aft deck. “The Dynasian delegation reports it is ready for transport.”

“If you will excuse me, Warden,” said Mycelli. “I must go greet our other guests.”

As soon as the captain and his first officer had departed for the transporter room, Chandat wrenched his attention away from the viewscreen and turned to face Tommas. He could not afford to let his attention wander away from the demands of the unfolding conspiracy.

“Ambassador, I very much appreciate the use of this starship’s conference facilities. The entire Faculty recognizes the need for neutral territory, not to mention that the safety of these accommodations will ease any tensions raised by the specter of insurgent attacks.”

“So, you are making some progress.”

“Of a sort,” sighed Chandat. “There is still no movement toward an agreement over the issue of admission to the Federation, but I have managed to reduce the size of the quarrel. By restricting each Faculty faction to one deputy, the noise level of our debates has been substantially reduced.”

The ambassador laughed in recognition of the value of even this small achievement, and Chandat regretted that their flowering friendship would soon come to an abrupt end. They continued to chat about less weighty matters, and if Tommas noticed the warden’s mounting apprehension, she must have attributed it to the pressures of an impending council session.

A parting of doors announced the arrival of the Faculty deputies. As Mycelli escorted one troupe of Dynasians onto the aft deck of the Sullivan, a turbolift at the forward end of the bridge discharged Dier and her charges onto the command deck.

Chandat waited patiently for his colleagues to finish gaping at the sight on the main viewscreen; if nothing else, this reminder of their common origins would reinforce a spirit of unity.

Then, one by one as they recovered their composure, each of the professors surreptitiously moved into place next to a member of the bridge crew.

Spreading wide his arms in a gesture of welcome, Chandat said, “Now!”

To his relief, the Dynasians actually obeyed.

Oomalo and Shagret, the most muscular of the academics, had been chosen to subdue the captain and his first officer. Given her Starfleet training, Dier was more than a match for the dean, but she stopped fighting him the instant she saw the native Dynasian professor put a choke-hold on Mycelli and lift him off his feet. Oomalo’s thick reptilian body was impervious to his kicking boots.

The ambassador easily threw off Dean Thorina’s fumbling grasp, but ever the diplomat, Tommas called out, “Don’t fight them!”

Fortunately for everyone involved, the Federation crew obeyed her order, and Oomalo lowered the choking, red-faced captain back down to the deck.

“I appreciate your cooperation, Ambassador,” said Chandat. “It is not our wish to hurt anyone.”

“Then what is the purpose of this assault?”

Anger at his betrayal of trust had wiped away all traces of her former amiability.

“We have need of the Sullivan.”

“Are you mad?” demanded the first officer. Her captain was still gasping and incapable of speech.

“How long do you think your people can retain control of this starship?”

“Long enough for our purposes, Commander Dier.

You see, certain rare Iconian artifacts in our possession are still in working order.” Chandat reached for the medallion at the end of his chain of office. “This one, for instance.”

Pressing his finger against a depression in the center of the disk, he waited to see what would happen.

The effect of the sonic waveform generator was dramatic and instantaneous. The ship’s first officer crumpled to the deck too quickly to even groan, as did the ambassador and all the other Humans.

I got it right! Chandat was astounded that his estimate of the proper stun frequency for this alien race had been correct. Perhaps he had missed his calling as a scientist after all.

“It worked,” cried Shagret, equally startled by their success. A foolish smile spread across the dean’s face as he surveyed the sea of fallen bodies. Then he stooped down to check on Dier. “She’s still breathing.”

“But of course,” said Chandat, although privately he had feared the high-frequency sonic wave might be fatal. “And they will all remain unconscious for hours, long enough for us to immobilize them.” This was another prediction based on ancient lore, but he was suddenly confident that the technology of his Iconian ancestors could be trusted to perform as described.

“But what about the others?” demanded Oomalo, with the pragmatic attitude of a native.

Chandat stepped over Tommas’s prone form in order to move down to the command deck.

“Fortunately, the crew complement of a Miranda-class starship is small, so the remainder of the crew will be conquered with even greater ease.”

Some leaders might have chosen to sit in the captain’s chair, but Warden Chandat walked eagerly to the helm of the Sullivan. As he settled down behind the controls of the starship, he called out for Diat Manja.

The old man had lingered on the periphery of the bridge, taking no part in the action. Upon hearing his name, however, he shuffled forward. He clutched a parchment scroll close to his sunken chest.

“But Warden,” said Manja in a bewildered voice. “How can all this violence help forward T’Sara’s cause?”

“Please, Professor, do not worry yourself with the petty details of interplanetary diplomacy; that is my job.” Chandat studied the flight control console with growing delight. He would gladly forfeit his life for these next few days of space travel. “Now, if you will, the coordinates for this Appointed Place you mentioned.”

With a heavy sigh, Manja unrolled the parchment scroll to display an ancient star map.

Asao Matasu had just closed his eyes when the trill of an intercom hail shattered the serene silence in his cabin.

“My apologies for interrupting your meditation, Admiral,” said his aide’s voice a second later, “but Lieutenant Commander Kiley-Smith said it was urgent; something about a starship that has dropped out of sight and is not responding to any subspace radio hails.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he replied, unfolding his lanky body from the lotus position. “Please meet me at Communications.”

The commander of Starbase 75 walked with a slightly bowed head through the halls of the station. He appeared to be in constant meditation, but the posture was more practical than philosophical; Matasu was a very tall man whose head would brush the ceiling otherwise.

Lieutenant Abell was already waiting for him outside the entrance to the communications complex. She smiled a greeting, and said, “This way, Admiral,” then turned so as to trigger the doors to open.

Matasu ducked his head to follow her over the threshold. His last aide had given up even the pretense of eye contact and had addressed all his comments to the admiral’s stomach. Matasu appreciated Abell’s greater show of courtesy, but hoped she did not suffer unduly from the effort.

Perhaps he would recommend yoga exercises to keep her neck muscles supple, just as he did to counteract the constant strain of looking down.

Once inside, however, the admiral was able to straighten up to his full height. The control room of the communications center was a spacious dome whose curving walls were alight with colorful data displays. Dozens of maps, charts, and graphs tracked the streams of information that moved in and out of Starbase 75 from every point in the sector and many places beyond.

“Still no word from the Enterprise?” asked Matasu.

“No, sir,” said Kiley-Smith as he stepped away from the base-to-ship tracking console. “But now we’ve lost contact with the Plath, a Klingon bird-of-prey, crew complement of twelve.”

The console operator continued the specifics of the briefing. “The starship’s navigator transmitted a coordinate check just after the Enterprise reported the destruction of Starbase 193. Captain Duregh volunteered to assist the Portsmouth with the rescue effort, but then the Plath never arrived.”

Starbase 193 had covered an area that was far beyond the reach of Matasu’s current resources, and the loss of the station blinded him as to what was happening in that sector; he needed eyes to see through the darkness. “Are there any other starships in the area that could investigate this matter?”

Kiley-Smith shook his head. “The Portsmouth and the Clarke are still docked at Luxor IV, but currently both are committed to other missions.”

“I shall see to uncommitting one of them,” said Matasu firmly, but he knew that the diversion would take time to arrange and that even the fastest vessel would require considerable time to cover the distances involved. “Meanwhile, issue an alert to all Starfleet facilities in this quadrant; tell them to be on the lookout for both the Enterprise and the Plath … and their attackers. I will prepare a report for Starfleet Command advising them of the situation.”

“Aye, sir.”

As the admiral headed toward his office, head bowed once again to facilitate his passage through the corridors, Lieutenant Abell echoed his own worried thoughts.

“What’s going on out there, Admiral?

Exploding starbases, missing starships … Could the Romulans be planning a new offensive for the Empire?”

He shook his head. “A warbird is powerful, but I don’t think it could take down two Federation starships in a row.”

Abell accepted the admiral’s assessment with a puzzled frown. “Then what could?”

“I don’t know, Lieutenant,” said Matasu, “but I hope whoever, or whatever, is responsible stays the hell away from my starbase.”

And may the gods help Jean-Luc Picard, wherever he may be.

Kanda Jiak shivered when he stepped into the cold air of the detention cell. He longed for the thick knit sweater tucked into his backpack, a farewell present from First Officer Conrad, but all his belongings had been confiscated when he entered the security complex.

Turning to his armed escort, Jiak protested one last time. “But I’m not a Dynasian!”

“Right,” said the guard with a weary sigh. “You just happen to look like one.” Her finger tapped out a rapid sequence on a wall panel.

The young man jumped back as the high humming sound of a force field snapped into place along the frame of the portal. The immi gration official of Hayhurst Junction had described this detention as a bureaucratic formality, so Jiak had expected to spend a few hours in a passenger lounge; instead, he had been taken to a security chamber for interrogation. The references to ambassadors and starships and insurgents had been completely bewildering, but there was no mistaking the consternation of the Starfleet officers.

Somehow, the Dynasians had angered the Federation even more thoroughly than the DiWahns.

Jiak gingerly approached the entrance of his cell. Careful not to touch the field itself, he craned his neck to look up and down the outside corridor. The guard was gone.

I’m a political prisoner.

That realization was almost as comical as it was frightening. In either event, it was a reality that could not be wished away or cried away, so he blinked back tears and turned to greet his companion in confinement.

Jiak had caught only a brief impression of a robed figure huddled on one of the narrow cots. Upon a closer look, however, the young Iconian made out the features shadowed by the heavy cowl. The man’s forehead was ridged in a fan-shaped pattern that arched over his purple eyes, and his skin was a delicate shade of violet. This was no mirror image of Jiak’s own face, but they both clearly bore the stamp of a shared genetic heritage.

When he could breathe again, Jiak stammered, “Are you … a Dynasian?”

“That is what my identity papers maintain,” said the man. His lips curled into a sly smile.

“I’ve never seen another Iconian before … at least, not since I was a small child.” Jiak struggled for composure, restrained by his cellmate’s apparent indifference to this statement.

“My name is Kanda Jiak.”

“The Gem-Bearer’s namesake!” The Dynasian’s richly colored eyes took on a gleam of excitement. “How did you come by such an illustrious name?”

Buoyed by this welcome, Jiak settled cross-legged on the floor by the man’s feet and spilled out the story of the last days of Ikkabar and his own flight from Redifer. “Before I reached Hayhurst Junction, I tried to visit DiWahn, but—” “DiWahn!” The man darted forward and grabbed a fistful of Jiak’s shirt. “What do you know of the planet DiWahn?”

“Nothing … all travel to the system was suspended.” The intensity of the man’s demand was unnerving. “Conrad said the trouble had something to do with an armada and the threat of armed aggression against the Federation.”

“Ah, so the fleet of the Faithful was launched!” Releasing his hold on Jiak, the man fell back against the cell wall. He gazed into the distance, as if witnessing a vision shimmering in the air. “After generations of waiting, our time to enter the Dreaming has arrived.”

T’Sara’s writings on the diaspora had recorded the beliefs of the DiWahn they were obsessed with the dreams of the Gem-Bearers. “But you said you were a Dynasian!”

“I have said many things in my life.” The Iconian uttered a throaty chuckle. “The consulate is checking my identity papers, just as they are checking yours. Who knows what they will find in their search? If they find the truth, I will remain in this cell, or one very much like it, for the rest of my life.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jiak, yet he wondered uneasily what crime the fugitive DiWahn had committed. Life imprisonment was usually reserved for murder.

“Save your pity for yourself. I have fulfilled my life’s quest, whereas you have just begun yours.”

“What was your quest?”

The DiWahn was still staring into space with a rapt expression. “Like you, I spent my childhood among the races of the Federation. I have never even set foot on my homeworld, but my father showed me the path of the Faithful. My sworn duty was to follow after T’Sara.”

“You know T’Sara?” cried Jiak. Hearing her name was like meeting a friend in an unfamiliar place. “Please, tell me about her.”

The DiWahn was too absorbed in his own memories to attend to the interruption. “My only regret is that I could not return home in time to join the armada. In order to elude capture by unbelievers, I bought forged papers listing me as a Dynasian. That choice was my undoing.”

He shrugged his resignation. “Imprisonment is a small price to pay for recovering the Gem.”

“The Gem?” Jiak’s eyes widened at the mention of the powerful icon. “You mean the Dream Gem is not just a legend?”

The DiWahn hesitated, his reply forestalled by the distant sound of doors parting, followed by the tread of boots echoing down the corridor.

“No, not a myth, Kanda Jiak, Gem-Bearer,” he whispered. “See for yourself.

Join our order and hear the Telling.”

“But how can I find—” “Ask a woman named Camenae on Starbase 193. If you’re willing to meet her price, she will answer all your questions. Find the Gem, and you will find the Faithful.”

The footsteps stopped outside the cell.

“Hey, I don’t have all day,” said a voice edged with irritation.

Jiak looked up to see that the force field had been deactivated. The guard standing by the entrance was holding his backpack in her hands.

She beckoned him with a jerk of her head. “The Federation consulate has confirmed your residency on Redifer III. You’re permitted to leave the Junction so long as you stay away from Dynasia.”

“Go!” urged the DiWahn softly.

Jiak scrambled to his feet, his mind still reeling from the man’s revelations.

Thousands of years ago, the Dream Gem had opened the Three Gates that saved the Iconian people from annihilation. If the first Kanda Jiak had walked through the Gate to Ikkabar, the powers of his Gem could have tamed the planet. Without his assistance, the third branch of the Iconian race had withered away.

However, if Kanda Jiak’s namesake gained possession of the Gem, perhaps that tragic history could be revised.

Grabbing his pack from the guard, the last survivor of Ikkabar raced down the corridor. He was headed toward freedom and a new destination.

CHAPTER 27

Main engineering was rarely quiet. Most often the rumble that permeated the area came from the steady pulse of the matterstantimatter reaction chamber. Today, however, the warp propulsion system was shut down and the ship’s engines were cold; instead, the noisy bustle of Humans filled the air as a constant stream of engineering personnel moved from one work station to another, then dashed away.

Yet there was an island of stability in this whirlwind of motion. The master situation monitor covered most of the forward wall section in engineering, and for the past five hours Geordi La Forge had returned again and again to the cutaway schematic of the Enterprise that was on display. When he had first assessed the damage to the starship, broad sections of the diagram had been highlighted in red. Now, as the chief engineer continued to track the progress of repairs, yet another of the system indicators blinked from red to green.

After checking the value of a number on the board, Geordi turned to face the ship’s first officer. “Well, the good news is that the deflector shields are working again.”

“So what’s the bad news?” asked Riker dutifully.

“They’re only at about forty-six percent efficiency, and they’re going to stay at that level until we replace at least five conformal transmission grids on the primary hull and then realign the entire array.”

“Let’s do it.”

With a warning shake of his head, Geordi said, “Yeah, but to work on the grids we have to take the graviton polarity source generators off-line, which leaves us without any deflector shields for over four hours. Usually that’s a procedure performed only in spacedock, because if we disassociate our shield generators in space …”

“The Enterprise would be a sitting duck,” finished Riker. “Anybody with a peashooter could take us on.”

“Exactly,” said the chief engineer. “Not only that, without operational deflector shields, we couldn’t travel above impulse speed without turning to Swiss cheese. Even full impulse for a sustained length of time would risk serious micro-meteoroid degradation of the hull’s duranium substrate.”

“You haven’t left us with many options, Geordi.”

La Forge shrugged. “I thought miracles were your department, Commander.”

“It looks like I’ve used up my quota for now.” The first officer glanced over at the schematic and frowned. “Captain Picard will have to make this decision. I’ll get back to you after we’ve had a chance to talk it over.”

“No problem, Commander,” said Geordi with an amiable grin. “I’ll be right here.”

The engineer turned back to the master display just as another red light turned green. Slowly but surely, piece by piece, the ship was returning to normal.

The broad, curving windows of Ten-Forward provided the best view of space on the Enterprise, and it was a view that Deanna Troi usually enjoyed. Today, however, she found the scene outside the lounge to be a disquieting reminder of their present danger. The damaged starship was adrift in the midst of desolate space with the skeletal remains of a warbird as its only companion. Perhaps others among the crew were filled with dread at the sight, because only a few of the tables in the room were occupied, and the people sitting there were all facing away from the windows.

The counselor settled herself at the bar and tried to think of something to order. Out of the corner of one eye, she watched Guinan set two glasses in front of a couple at the far end of the counter, then drift back in her direction.

“What can I get for you?” asked the hostess.

She was dressed in an embroidered robe of forest green; a wide square-brimmed hat of the same color, only darker in shade, covered her head.

“I haven’t made up my mind,” said Troi. “What would you suggest?”

“Well, that depends. Are you more in an eating or a drinking mood?”

“I’m not really hungry,” Troi decided.

She wasn’t really thirsty either, but she would feel less awkward about her visit to Ten-Forward if she adopted some token excuse for her presence.

Guinan picked up a conical glass. “A drink it is. What about a Venusian fruit cider?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m in the mood for.” Troi’s enthusiasm sounded forced to her own ear, and it must have appeared equally insincere to Guinan, because she made no move to fill the glass.

“I get the feeling there’s something troubling you, Deanna.”

Troi sighed, andwitha guilty smile, said, “I’m supposed to be the counselor around here, remember.”

Guinan chuckled with a throaty voice that almost purred. “Even counselors need a sympathetic listener now and then.” She turned to pour the drink, giving Troi time to collect her thoughts.

The cider was delicious, and somehow talking seemed easier after a few sips of its delicate flavor. “Will Riker is worried about the captain’s fascination with the Devil’s Heart. He fears that it has become an obsession … and so do I.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Well, the course change which brought us out here,” Troi inclined her head in the direction of the windows, “was very troublesome. Captain Picard says it was to draw our pursuers away from vulnerable Federation colonies, but I can’t help wondering if there was another motivation at work, if he wasn’t actually searching for an excuse to delay giving up the Heart.”

The hostess dipped her head for a moment, and the flat rim of her hat obscured her expression.

When she looked up again, the concern she had tried to erase from her face could still be found in her dark eyes, yet she said, “I don’t believe Picard would let his command judgment be seriously compromised by the Heart.”

“You sound very sure of that. Why?”

“Because,” said Guinan, “all the stories I’ve heard speak of temptation rather than coercion. The Heart can turn your own desires against you, but it can’t make you do anything against your true nature.”

“And Captain Picard would never choose to hurt the Enterprise or the people on it.”

Guinan nodded, and Deanna toyed with letting the whole matter end on this comforting note, yet she knew Riker would not be so easily reassured.

“Could I have another one of these drinks?”

“I’m glad you liked it.” Guinan whisked away the empty glass, and plucked up a clean one from beneath the counter.

“Guinan, the captain trusts you more than any other person on board the Enterprise. If you could persuade him to give the Heart to you for safe—” The glass the hostess had been holding slipped from her fingers and crashed to the floor.

“What’s wrong?” Troi was surprised that her request could rattle the imperturbable Guinan.

“Are you afraid that he won’t hand it over to you?”

“No, Counselor, I’m afraid that he might.”

“But it would be for only a short time,” said Troi, “long enough to carry the Heart to a storage vault where Will could secure it for the remainder of our journey.”

Guinan shook her head back and forth as Troi talked, then said, “One of the advantages of growing old is learning your own limitations, and this is definitely a risk I’m not qualified to take. I trust Jean-Luc Picard with the Heart far more than I trust myself.”

“But why?” Troi’s alarm concerning the stone’s powers returned in full force.

“Among my people the Heart was known as the Master of All Stories, and for a race of Listeners, that can result in a fatal enchantment.”

“Enchantment? You make it sound like a fairy tale, and the captain is the unlucky prince who has fallen under an evil spell.” Troi laughed at the analogy, but then she asked, “Guinan, do you think the Heart is evil?”

“Only living things have the capacity for good or evil. So, do you think the Heart is alive?”

“I sense nothing from it … yet more and more the captain speaks of it as a sentient being.” The empath thought for a moment, then shook her head. “I just don’t know.”

“Neither do I, Counselor,” said Guinan softly. “Neither do I.”

As the doors to the ready room opened, Data regarded the interior scene with dispassion. The android was an impartial observer, and as such the presence of the Heart on Picard’s desk did not arouse any emotion in him. However, the stone did trigger a complex set of associations with recent disruptive events. On purely intellectual grounds, therefore, Data would have preferred that the Heart had never been brought aboard the Enterprise.

“Did you enjoy your rest, Captain?” asked Data as he walked across the room.

“What?” Picard looked up from his desk viewer. “Oh, my rest. Yes, I did, thank you.”

Data had often observed that Humans used certain phrases for their iconic value in expressing a sense of connection with community members, rather than in a literal sense of providing accurate information. He concluded that this must be one of those occasions because the captain’s physical condition did not appear to have substantially improved since the conference in the observation lounge.

Picard glanced back at the computer, then over at the padd in Data’s hands. “Didn’t I just receive your Ops report?”

“This is not a status update,” said Data.

“Rather, I have identified the pertinent coordinates of the location in which you were interested.”

“Let me see.” Leaning forward over his desk, Picard reached out eagerly for the padd, then sighed with relief at the sight of the Federation star map that had matched his sketch. “Yes, that’s the place exactly! But it certainly took you long enough to find it.”

“My apologies for the delay,” said Data.

“However, my search was complicated by a rather curious aspect of the scene you drew. That particular juxtaposition of the comet against the designated constellation of stars has not occurred yet; in fact, it will not occur for at least forty-eight hours.”

“In the future …” murmured Picard.

His brow furrowed with the intensity of his thoughts, and one of his hands dropped down onto the Heart. “Yes … yes, of course. That means there is still time to act.”

“Intriguing. What particular action does this call for?”

“Thank you for your help, Mr. Data.” The captain did not remove his gaze from the map.

“That will be all for now.”

Data’s positronic brain forged a new connection, one between the star map and the Devil’s Heart. As he left the ready room, the android began to calculate the probability that another catastrophic event would occur soon.

Troi felt unusually conspicuous walking onto the Enterprise bridge, and the empath quickly determined the focus for that unease Lieutenant Worf was tracking her progress from the aft turbolift to the command center.

She sensed in him the usual uneasiness that always seemed to underlie their interactions, especially those involving Worf’s son, Alexander; but this was overshadowed by a new set of emotions that were more difficult to untangle. For some reason she could not fathom, the Klingon was wary of her.

Riker and Picard were engaged in a somber discussion involving shield repairs, so she quietly slipped into place beside the captain.

“… no question that we must improve our shield strength,” continued Picard. “This mission isn’t over yet, and we dare not continue without maximum protection.”

“Agreed,” said Riker, although Troi could easily sense his apprehension about this decision.

She could also read the question in his eyes when he stole a quick glance in her direction. A subtle shake of her head was all it took to indicate that Guinan could not help them, but Worf must have seen the gesture from his perch above because the Klingon’s suspicions broadened to include the first officer.

The captain cast his voice upward to engage the intercom system. “Picard to La Forge.

Let’s proceed with the deflector shield repairs before we attract any more company out here.”

“Acknowledged, Captain.”

While the captain and the chief engineer exchanged technical information about the repair procedure, Troi surreptitiously evaluated Picard’s physical and emotional condition. His fatigue was even more pronounced than before; he seemed to hoard his strength by moving only when absolutely necessary.

On the other hand, the growing mental agitation she had sensed in the conference room was gone now. The counselor wondered if Picard’s composure had been restored by the Heart, which was tucked securely into the crook of his arm.

“Conformal grids on the primary hull have been deactivated,” continued Geordi.

“Graviton generators are going off-line … now.”

Troi shivered in response to the feeling of vulnerability that suddenly radiated from the entire bridge crew. She strengthened her empathic shields to block against the projected emotions, yet she was still left with her own feelings of helplessness.

As the first few minutes of the repair project dragged by, the thought of four hours stretched into an eternity …

… that was shattered by yellow alert.

“Captain,” called out Data. “Sensors detect an object two hundred thousand kilometers dead ahead.”

“There!” Riker pointed to the main viewscreen, and Troi looked up to see that the placid vista of distant stars had begun to shimmer and ripple with distortion waves. A ship was uncloaking before them.

“Phasers locking on target,” announced Worf tersely.

“Hold fire until my signal, Lieutenant,” said Picard as he rose to his feet.

Troi could sense that the captain was straining against the desire to shoot first without waiting to see the face of their enemy, but Picard’s Starfleet training repressed the urge to provoke a battle they could not hope to win. Even a lightly shielded vessel would withstand a phase r attack long enough to retaliate against the unshielded Enterprise.

The phantom form took solid shape.

Angled wings stretched wide on either side of a narrow-necked forward hull.

“It’s a bird-of-prey,” said Riker, his chest heaving with a sigh of relief.

“Captain.” There was a hint of elation in Worf’s voice when he said, “We are being hailed by Captain Duregh of the Plath.”

“On screen, Lieutenant.” Picard appeared too drained by the sudden emergency to share in the general rejoicing.

Stars gave way to a close shot of Duregh’s face. Troi thought him young to be commanding his own warship, but Duregh had the lean, feral look of an ambitious Klingon warrior.

“Greetings, Captain Picard.” The dim red lighting of the Plath’s command pit washed down over the furrows of Duregh’s brow; his deep-set eyes were lost in shadow. “We heard of your plight from the Portsmouth and have followed your trail in hopes of joining in combat against the Romulans. Obviously, we have arrived too late to share that honor.”

“Not so, Captain,” said Picard. “We welcome your assistance while we effect certain repairs to our ship.”

“Ah, yes. My weapons officer informed me you are without shields.” Despite his smile, Duregh’s facial muscles were stiff with repressed tension. The empath thinned her emotional barriers to read him more fully. “So our journey was not in vain.”

Something is wrong.

Troi leapt up from her chair. “Captain, wait, I sense—” Her warning came too late.

The Klingon ship discharged its phasers and seconds later an explosion somewhere in the primary hull rocked the bridge, throwing the counselor off-balance. As she grabbed at a bridge railing for support, the Klingon warship fired a second time on the Enterprise, scoring a hit to the engineering hull. Red alert sirens overlapped the babble of damage reports from all decks.

Picard had managed to keep his footing on the deck without releasing his grip on the Heart.

“Fire phasers!”

“Phasers inoperative,” replied Worf.

Duregh laughed loudly at the result of his treachery. “Our next assault will destroy your ship, Captain Picard.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Eyes drawn to the stone in the captain’s hands, Duregh said, “Because the Pagrashtak is mine.

Transport Kessec’s jewel over to me, and I will spare your life.”

“No!” cried Picard. “Such an action will only perpetuate the chaos which has surrounded this relic. I will not give it up to you or to anyone who would abuse its powers for violent ends.”

“Then prepare to die. I can rake the Pagrashtak from out of the rubble of your blasted ship and the corpses of your dead crew.”

“Traitor!” stormed Worf from the aft deck. “You have no honor!”

“Fool,” said the Klingon commander with a snarl.

“You speak of matters that are beyond your understanding. I do this to recover my honor. I am a direct descendant of Durall, son of Kessec. The Pagrashtak was stolen from him, and thus stolen from me; it is my birthright.”

The captain shook his head. “No, you are wrong. Emperor Kessec willingly gave up the Heart …”

“Silence!”

“… to a slave,” declared Picard, “not to his sons.”

“And for that disgrace he died by their hands!” screamed Kessec’s descendant, his face contorted by rage. “You have only a few seconds of life remaining, Captain Picard, and I no longer care whether you surrender or not.”

He stretched out an arm to signal his crew.

“Duregh!” Raising the Heart before him like a shield, Picard shouted, “I’ll see you burn in hell for this!”

The arm dropped. “Fire!”

A phaser beam lanced out from the underside of the Plath …

… then suddenly blossomed into a fireball that burned back along its own path until it enveloped the bird-of-prey.

With a cry of pain, Troi threw up her hands to ward off the blinding light of the explosion that stabbed her eyes. When she finally dared look again, the blazing remains of the Plath still crackled and flickered on the viewscreen.

“Captain?”

Picard stood transfixed in the center of the bridge; he was staring down in horror at the Heart clutched in his hands.

CHAPTER 28

A constant cold wind droned through the abandoned city, lifting clouds of fine-grained dust into the air. Dusky blue light, stripped of heat, fought its way down through the haze to illuminate the ground on which Picard walked. He could still make out faint traces of a pathway, but most of the paved surface had been scoured away. The weight of eons had tumbled all the buildings down and chipped away at their foundations. At first he had thought he was on Atropos, then he realized that this place was much older.

Age frosted the entire planet, but the pulsing glow of the Heart warmed his hands. Whenever his foot strayed off the path, the stone shifted in his palms, gently pushing him to one side or the other until he recovered his way. Picard let the Heart guide him over the pitted terrain until they reached a line of broken columns. There he stopped to gaze in wonder at the sculpted form just ahead.

The thick slab of rock was set on edge.

Its original shape may have been oval, but now its outer rim was broken and irregular; the opening in its center appeared to be part of the ancient design, but it was eroded as well.

Picard was buffeted by waves of an invisible but palpable force emanating from the structure. Or was it a being?

“The Guardian of Forever,” he whispered in awe.

At the sound of his voice, the crystalline stone of its ring-shaped body flickered and glowed from within, suffused with the same quality of light that fired the Heart.

The reaction was a reply of sorts, and Picard wondered if he could communicate with the being. There were so many questions he wanted answered, but one above all others.

Picard held up the Heart. “Guardian, what is this stone I carry?”

“It is a seed,” said a deep thrumming voice. The light flickered in rhythm with its words. “One meant to grow in a better soil than this dead planet.”

“How did it become enmeshed in our history?”

“Those who created me, created the seed; but the Architects were mortal, and after their passing there was no one to guide it on its true path. The seed went astray.”

Mist pooled in the center of the slab, then cleared away to reveal a stream of images framed inside the stone border.

Picard moved closer, mesmerized by the clarity of the visions. He saw the Heart fall like a blazing meteor through a purple sky, then plunge deep into a grassy plain. Alien hands scrabbled through the dirt of the crater until they uncovered the stone. To Picard’s horror, he saw the simple hunting culture of a race known as the T’Kon erupt outward into a far-flung stellar empire, then wither away and die.

New hands seized the stone, starting yet another undulating wave of murder and war. Fiefdoms burst into imperial splendor, then toppled as greed-driven betrayals weakened their foundations.

He caught a brief flash of Garamond and Kessec in the timeslip, but the rest who had held the Heart went by in a blur.

As Time flowed on, the ripples of disruption spread wider and wider, all part of an unceasing pattern of struggle for possession of the Heart.

“Guardian, can this damage be undone?”

“Yes,” said the voice, “but if you take back the seed early in the affairs of these beings, you also unravel all the greatness built with its powers. The universe you know will be torn from its roots, and the river will flow through different channels.”

Picard shook his head; this was no solution. The consequences of the Heart’s presence had gathered too much weight to be dislodged from the past. “I must remove the Heart from my own time before it causes any more upheaval. Show me how to return it to the path you spoke of.”

The mist gathered again, then cleared to reveal a new scene the blackness of deep space, a scattering of stars and a comet with its tail stretched out behind it like a banner.

“I know this place,” said Picard. “It was in the vision given to me by T’Sara.”

“Planting time draws near again,” said the Guardian. “The seed must be sown here.”

As if called by those words, the Heart stirred in Picard’s hands. He edged to the very lip of the portal and gazed raptly at the image of the comet. The seed’s yearning to continue its journey almost drove him to step through the opening. His fingers closed tightly on the rough texture of the stone’s surface. He knew what it wanted, but letting go was difficult.

Taking a deep breath, he loosened his grip and steeled himself to toss the stone into the well.

“No!” A spidery hand pawed at the captain’s arm before he could move. “Do not be so hasty.”

Picard twirled around to face the gaunt figure of the Collector. The spare flesh of her body had not dried yet, but her ravaged face was that of a being near death. On the other side of her own dream, Halaylah was sealed in her chamber.

“Let go of me,” he said, shuddering away from her bony fingers. The sight of her filled him with revulsion. “You died trying to keep the Heart to yourself, but it has passed on to me. I’ll decide its fate now.”

Her shriveled lips contorted into a leer. “You do not comprehend what you are about to throw away. In order to act wisely, you must fully understand its powers, Captain …”

“… Captain.” He could feel the touch of a hand on the sleeve of his uniform.

“Captain?”

Picard opened his eyes and found himself slumped over his desk, head cradled in his arms, with the Heart resting by his elbow. There was a stranger, oddly familiar, leaning over him.

As the dream-induced confusion began to clear, Picard belatedly recognized his first officer.

Struggling to pull himself free of the vapors that clouded his mind, the capt ain sat up in his chair.

“What is it, Number One?”

“We have company.” The first officer pulled away from the desk and assumed a more formal stance while delivering his report. “A long-range sensor scan has detected the presence of a fleet of warp-driven craft at the periphery of our detection range. The total number of vessels is still difficult to determine at this distance, but Data confirmed there are at least twenty ships.”

Picard longed for solitude in which to recall the details of his dreaming, but he forced himself to attend to Jack’s words. “Do you have any idea who they are?”

“All we have so far is a name,” said Crusher.

“According to some stray bits of their ship-to-ship communications, the fleet belongs to a race who call themselves the unDiWahn.”

“The unDiWahn!”

“You know them?”

“Yes, I was warned about them by …”

Picard reached out for a name, but it wasn’t in place. There was a gap in his memory where a person belonged.

“Warned by a dream?” asked Crusher. There was a bitter edge to the question. His resentment of the Heart’s influence over his captain was growing stronger each day.

“Jack …” It was a signal between them, worked out over the years, that Picard needed to talk to him as a friend, rather than as a commanding officer.

Nodding his understanding, the first officer pulled a chair up to the desk and sat down across from Picard. In the decades since they had left Starfleet Academy, Jack Crusher’s boyish face and lanky frame had filled out and grown more rugged; gray had roughened the texture of his hair, and adversity had hardened the look in his eyes; but his smile was still as welcoming now as it had been when they were fellow cadets.

“I’m worried about you, Jean-Luc.

So is Beverly, both as a doctor and as a friend.”

“The Heart is not a danger to me,” said Picard. It was so difficult to explain with fatigue dragging him back toward sleep and the intoxication of more dreams. He reached out to touch the stone, drawing strength from its warmth. “It is sentient, Jack, a being in trouble that needs our help, and I intend to hold fast until the Heart has reached its destination.”

He had been so close to understanding before the Collector interfered. Perhaps the Guardian could complete the instructions in his next dream.

Crusher dropped his head down, burying his face in his hands. When he looked up again, his brow was furrowed as if in pain.

“Jean-Luc, if you look out the window behind you, you’ll see the charred wreckage of two warships.

We haven’t even finished patching the Enterprise back together again from our battle with the Plath, yet if we so much as sneeze we could suddenly be facing an entire fleet of these unDiWahn. The longer we stay out here, the less chance there is that we’ll ever make it back home alive.”

“I intend to do everything in my power to succeed without that sacrifice. However,” said Picard with a fervor solidified by his dream of the Heart’s origins, “I believe that this mission is of overwhelming importance, and that its completion is so crucial that it demands our continued efforts no matter what the risk.”

Crusher was silent for a long while. At last he said, “What you ask is difficult, Jean-Luc, but I’ve trusted you with my life, andwiththe life of my wife and children, for over twenty years now. So I guess I’m not about to stop now … Captain.”

Captain … That last word echoed in the air, only the second overlapping voice Picard heard was not Jack’s, and it was muffled as if by fog and the distance of many years.

“No,” whispered Picard, fighting back a sudden panic born of some terrible knowledge that lurked in the shadows of his mind. “I won’t let this be taken from me.”

“What’s wrong, Jean-Luc?” Alarm jerked Crusher back onto his feet.

“Nothing, Jack. I’m just tired.” Picard felt the touch of a ghostly hand on his shoulder. Its fingers gripped him with a disconcerting solidity.

No! Don’t do this!

“Captain?”

Picard opened his eyes to find that he was slumped over his desk once again. He looked up. The man who had called him out of the dream was taller than Jack, and he sported a closely cropped dark beard.

Will Riker … my first officer is Will Riker.

Grief churned through Picard’s stomach, and he swallowed down an upsurge of bile. This was reality; the other scene had been nothing but a dream. He was awake now.

Awake, yet still tantalized by the fading memories of a past spent with other people and other endings to the stories of his life. If he had finished his dream without interruption, could he have continued walking along that alternate path or would it have faded away? Surely, if he had wanted that reality strongly enough, the Heart could have kept Commander Jack Crusher alive.

I did want it, Jack. You must believe that!

Then Picard realized that the dream had been directed by the Collector. His only failing was in matching her control over the Heart. If Jack’s resurrection was truly within the scope of its powers, then Picard could also learn how to conduct such miracles. It would take time, but eventually he could change the circumstances that had led to his friend’s death, and the alternate reality could be recovered.

However, if he gave up the stone, Jack Crusher would be lost to him forever; Beverly would remain a widow; and their other children would remain unborn.

“Captain?”

“Yes, what is it Number One?” asked Picard, automatically walking through the lines of his role as this man’s captain.

Riker stepped back from the desk to deliver his report. “Lieutenant Worf has just intercepted some subspace radio transmissions coming from the periphery of our sensor range. Some race called—” “—called the unDiWahn,” said Picard as one last lingering tendril of his dream coiled tightly around his chest.

CHAPTER 29

The engineering schematic of the Enterprise was covered with red highlights once again. These tags were deceptively neat and orderly, but Riker could envision the messy damage they symbolized a starship becalmed in space with its hull scorched and pitted. This haunting image darkened his thoughts as he and Data listened to Geordi’s updated status report.

“Repairs to the weapons system should be finished within two hours,” said the chief engineer, pointing to a forward section of the saucer where the first barrage from the Plath had drilled straight through the dorsal phaser array.

“So much for our offense,” sighed Riker.

“What about defense?”

Geordi’s hand shifted to another area of the situation monitor that was still livid with contrasting colors; the second blow from the Plath had landed in the engineering hull. “We’ve almost completed the original repairs to navigational shields—” The ones that got us into this mess in the first place. The decision to proceed with repairs had seemed like a sound one at the time, but it was difficult for the first officer to remember that as he stared straight at the consequences of that action.

“However,” continued La Forge, “the new damage to the deflector shields has compromised tactical defense. There’s a limit to the repairs we can conduct out of spacedock, but I should know what percentage of our performance capacity has been restored in about four hours.”

Riker would have found the information reassuring if not for the recent sighting of the unDiWahn.

“Geordi, a rather large space fleet just wandered through this area. They appear to be gone for now, but there’s always the possibility they could circle back and find us. Without weapons and without defensive shields, our only recourse is to tuck tail and hope we can outrun them.”

“Fortunately,” said Data, “our sensor scans indicate the fleet is moving slowly.

The unDiWahn may lack the capacity for high warp speeds.”

“At the moment, so do we.” La Forge waved at the diagram of patchwork repairs in progress. “The warp reactor core has been off-line for the last hour while we replaced the starboard nacelle generator coils. As a result, we’ll have to ease into warp drive as we align the matterstantimatter injectors.”

“Swell,” said Riker. “At the first sign of trouble, we’ll limp out of here.”

“Yeah, but if we’d taken one more hit from the Plath, we wouldn’t be able to crawl out of here, so I’d say we’re pretty lucky.”

The engineer’s comment brought a puzzled frown to Data’s face. “Geordi, I am most curious about the Plath’s destruction.”

Riker had no way to cut off the discussion without drawing undue attention to the subject; instead, he listened as La Forge answered the android’s question.

“I can’t explain it, Data. There’s an outside chance it was some freak weapons malfunction, but I just can’t imagine what could make a warship’s phasers detonate like that.”

Geordi glanced back toward the schematic.

“And frankly, I haven’t got time to worry about the Plath right now.”

“Then we’ll leave you to carry on more important work,” said Riker, relieved that the engineer had dismissed the matter so quickly.

A few minutes later, when he and the android were walking down an empty passageway, Riker broached the subject himself. “Data, I would prefer an end to any more speculation about the explosion on the Plath. If anyone asks, we can attribute it to a faulty detonation control.”

“You wish me to lie?”

“Well, as a matter of fact …” Then Riker sighed, and said, “Let’s just say that I’d rather not concentrate too much attention on the incident.”

“Because it would corroborate certain powers attributed to the Heart?”

The first officer shook his head. “I can’t answer that.” The only person who had the authorization, or the knowledge, to deal with that question was the captain; and Riker wasn’t entirely sure that he wanted to hear Picard’s explanation.

Data was still silently pondering the implication of Riker’s evasion, when an intercom hail echoed through the corridor.

“Crusher to Commander Riker.”

“Riker here.”

“I’m ready to make that house call we discussed.”

“Proceed, Doctor,” said the first officer, coming to a sudden stop. “I’ll wait for you in Counselor Troi’s office.”

He turned to walk in a new direction, then realized that Data had overheard the entire exchange and might refer to it at some inopportune moment. Riker tried to think of a plausible excuse for this covert arrangement with the chief medical officer, but the strain of a last-minute invention must have showed because Data took the initiative.

“Commander,” said the android. “Would you prefer that I did not concentrate too much attention on this event as well?”

“Yes, Data,” said Riker with a sigh of relief. “Your inattention would be most appreciated.”

For now, at least. However, if Beverly Crusher’s effort was not successful, then the circle of involved officers would have to widen to include Data.

The lights of the ready room were dimmed to their lowest level. Taking a cautious step over the threshold, Crusher peered toward the star window.

There was no one sitting at the desk, yet she had heard Picard call out permission for her to enter.

The doors shut behind her, cutting the doctor off from the bridge and throwing the room into even greater darkness. “Captain?”

“Have you come to order me to my cabin, Doctor?” His words were faintly slurred with fatigue.

“No,” said Crusher, turning in the direction of Picard’s voice. She could barely make out a shadowy form hunched on the sofa. “After all, it doesn’t seem to have done much good last time.”

“Sleep doesn’t refresh me … too many dreams … I was on the verge of a dream when you came in.”

The doctor noted that Picard’s response time was significantly slower than usual, as if he was still working his way back to consciousness.

“I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

“No, don’t apologize,” he said. “I’m not sure I want to dream again.”

As her eyes grew more accustomed to the dark, Crusher could see that the captain was bent over the Heart. For a moment, a trick of the subdued lighting made her think the stone in his hands was glowing, but when she stepped closer the doctor realized its surface was the same dull gray she had seen before. “I’d like to run a few tests on you.”

“What?” Irritation roused Picard out of his lethargy. “Go to sickbay? I haven’t time for that now.”

“I knew you’d say that.” Crusher patted the medical tricorder hanging by her side. “So I came prepared to do a scan right here in your office.”

“Very well,” he said, slumping back over the Heart. “Do as you like.”

Moving quickly, before Picard could change his mind, she pulled the peripheral scanner off the tricorder. After a few passes of the whirring instrument, she had a preliminary result that confirmed the exhaustion she had already observed and also indicated some minor evidence of general neglect. “According to my readings, you’re somewhat anemic and your blood sugar levels are depressed. When was the last time you ate a decent meal?”

But Picard was lost in his own thoughts and didn’t hear her. “If I had understood its powers better, I could have saved the Enterprise without killing the crew of the Plath.”

A flick of Crusher’s thumb abruptly ended the scan; his mental state was of more interest to her after that statement. “Captain, do you really believe the Heart was responsible for the explosion?”

“I’ve tried to find some other explanation, but there is none. I regret …” He shook his head as if to dislodge the memory of the Klingon ship engulfed in flames. “The Heart obeyed my anger rather than my reason, yet over time I could learn how to wield its powers more directly.”

“Learn? How?”

“It speaks to me, Beverly,” whispered Picard, and she knelt down by his side to hear him more clearly. “In dreams I see wonders you can hardly imagine unseen vistas of the cosmos, times long past and yet just within reach. The Heart is as old as the stars and has powers beyond imagining. Why, the destruction of the Plath was mere child’s play. I could—” “Jean-Luc! What if you’re not the one in control?”

“You don’t understand,” he said. “The Heart doesn’t compel action, it merely offers the means to gain one’s ends. With this small stone in my possession, the Enterprise could be proof against all enemies and their betrayals, free to explore the entire universe without danger …

I could never fail.”

“Failure is human,” said Crusher. “We learn from our mistakes.”

“Some mistakes serve no purpose; some defeats only bring pain and humiliation.” He looked into her face, meeting her gaze directly for the first time. “If I were the only one involved, Beverly, perhaps I could accept my mistakes; but the consequences of my actions have affected so many other people. I’ve even hurt you and Wesley, and if it is in my power to make amends …”

“No, don’t torture yourself with those memories.” Crusher laid a hand on his arm, trying to reach through the sorrow that clouded his eyes.

She had made her peace with Jack’s death, but evidently Picard had not. “You can’t change the past, Jean-Luc.”

“But what if I could?” He leaned so close that she could feel his breath on her cheeks; his voice took on a deeper, more ominous tone.

“Given the opportunity for study, I suspect I could learn to hold the flow of time itself in my hands. Do I have the right to refuse those powers? Would you, as a doctor, throw away the ability to restore health, save lives, or even … raise the dead?”

Mesmerized by Picard’s words, Crusher saw the Heart as if for the first time. How could she have missed the aura of strangeness that surrounded its rough form?

She reached out to touch the stone.

The captain pulled away with a possessive gesture. Mine! he seemed to say as he clutched the Heart to his chest. “Are you finished with your medical exam, Doctor?”

“Yes, Captain.” Crusher rose to her feet and backed away. Just those few steps broke the Heart’s uncanny spell. Once more, the captain was holding just a rock.

Picard leaned back against the cushions of the sofa and crossed one leg over the other.

In an amiable, conversational tone, he said, “I promise to take better care of myself from now on.”

“That’s all I ask,” said Crusher with a smile that was stretched thin over her apprehension.

She left the captain sitting alone in the shadows of the ready room.

Troi had suggested her counseling room as the most comfortable and convenient meeting place, but the unspoken understanding among the three senior officers was that it also offered more privacy than the CMO’S office. Unfortunately, this need for privacy imbued their actions with an unpleasantly furtive nature, and the empath could sense a general discomfiture when they gathered. Although the cushioned furniture was designed to encourage relaxation, Will was perched on the edge of his chair, and Beverly was pacing back and forth as she described her encounter with the captain.

“There was no opportunity to take the Heart from him”—Crusher shuddered at some unpleasant aspect of the memory—”and I’m just as glad I didn’t even touch it.”

“Why not?” asked Troi curiously.

Beverly shrugged away the question as if not really sure herself. “One moment he seemed himself, then the next he was like a man possessed.”

“Are you qualified to perform an exorcism, Doctor?” asked Riker. The grim expression on his face robbed the question of any humor.

“I don’t believe an outside agent is the problem, Commander,” said Troi. After her talk with Guinan, the counselor had reached a new understanding of the captain’s behavior. “Even if the Heart is sentient, I don’t sense that it has taken control of Captain Picard. It acts more like an amplifier of all his emotions, and it has transformed his fascination with the stone’s legend into an obsession.”

“There’s more to it than that, Deanna,” said Crusher. “It’s no secret that our captain strives for perfection, that he dislikes making mistakes or losing. And after his abduction by the Borg …”

“Ah, yes,” said the counselor, pleased by the additional insight Beverly provided. “After his abduction he felt very vulnerable. So now he has what he believes to be the key to preventing failure of any sort.”

Riker frowned at the exchange. “You mean the Heart has made him an offer he can’t refuse?”

“Yes,” said Troi. “Yes, perhaps it has.”

“Engineering to Captain Picard.”

Picard woke with a start to find he was still sitting upright on the ready room sofa, and he wondered if he had been pulled out of sleep or into a dream.

“Engineering to Captain Picard,” repeated La Forge patiently.

“Picard here.”

“The engine core is back on-line, Captain. We’ll have warp speed in ten minutes.”

“Acknowledged, Lieutenant.”

Geordi’s voice was familiar, and there was no sense of the disorientation that had accompanied Jack Crusher’s presence, so Picard decided he was truly awake.

Tapping his comm insignia, he said, “Picard to Riker. Prepare for an immediate departure from this sector.”

“Aye, Captain!” came the first officer’s enthusiastic response. Riker was obviously eager for a return to Federation territory; the demand for yet another diversion would be difficult for him to accept.

Tucking the Heart securely into the crook of his arm, Picard whispered, “You have shown me where you need to go, but I still don’t know what to do when we get there.”

If only there had been time for one more dream … but despite his need for further guidance, Picard had fought against sleep. The encounter with Jack Crusher had shaken him too deeply to slip willingly into unconsciousness. So now, even though the past history of the Heart had been illuminated in exquisite detail, the future remained cloaked in mystery.

Unfortunately, the stakes were too high to delay action. He would have to proceed anyway, blindly trusting that the Heart would eventually reveal the last of its secrets.

The bridge was alive with the sound and movement of a ship restored to good health. Every console was fully powered and brightly lit; crew members marched briskly back and forth across the deck from one duty station to another; and minute by minute, the air Riker breathed was growing sweeter and warmer.

“All systems are operational,” called out La Forge from the aft deck engineering station. From his post at tactical, Worf echoed the engineer’s words; and Data looked over his shoulder and nodded to confirm the helm’s ready status.

To Riker’s mind, however, the return to normalcy would not be complete until the vacant captain’s chair was filled. Picard’s absences from the bridge were growing noticeably longer. The first officer was not given to undue flights of fancy, yet he imagined that the Heart could sense the crew’s antagonism to its presence, and like an animal under siege, it constantly urged a return to the safety of its den.

Rising to his feet at the sound of parting doors, Riker studied Picard as he emerged from the shadowed recesses of the ready room. The bright, even lighting of the bridge emphasized the captain’s drawn face and pale complexion; the impression of a live animal crouched on his arm was strengthened by his protective embrace of the Heart.

While the captain walked toward the command center, Riker continued with the routine preparations for the ship’s departure. “Mr. Data, lay in a course for Starbase 75.”

“Belay that order, Mr. Data,” said Picard. “Set a new course heading.”

The string of destination coordinates the captain called out next meant nothing to Riker, but he was appalled by the direction Picard had chosen. This sense of shock was universal; the entire bridge crew had frozen, arrested in mid-motion by the unexpected command.

“Captain,” said Riker. “That course is on a direct line away from Federation territory.”

“I’m aware of that, Number One,” said Picard. “Helm?”

Data’s hands immediately blurred into motion to make up for his momentary hesitation. “Course laid in, sir.”

“Warp one.” The captain stabbed his hand in the air as if to point the way through space.

“Engage.”

On the viewscreen, pinpoint stars transformed into streaks of light as the Enterprise slipped into warp speed. Heavy vibrations shuddered through the primary hull as La Forge adjusted the injection settings, but within seconds the trembling eased away. Working in tandem with the chief engineer, Picard ordered incremental increases in speed until the starship was cruising smoothly at warp four.

“The bridge is yours, Number One,” announced Picard without warning. He turned sharply on his heel and strode back to his ready room.

Riker was the first to speak in the wake of the captain’s abrupt departure. “Data, where are we going?”

“I can find no significant aspect to the designated location,” said the android. “However, the coordinates for the site came from a star map the captain has in his possession.”

“A star map? Where did he get this map?”

“That I cannot say, but I suspect it is somehow involved with the Heart.”

The association was not surprising, but it was definitely alarming. “Data, we’ve got to get that … thing away from the captain.”

The android adopted a dubious expression.

“He has been most reluctant to release it from his possession.”

“Enough!” said Worf.

Riker looked up in surprise to find the Klingon leaning over the deck rail, his face glowering with suspicion.

“The Pagrashtak is best left in the hands of Captain Picard. As his security chief, I will not allow it to be taken by force.”

“No, of course not, Lieutenant,” said the first officer, compelled into a hasty retraction by this unexpected opposition. “It’s entirely the captain’s decision when to give up the Heart.”

Yet Riker seriously questioned whether Picard would ever reach that decision on his own.

And just what am I going to do about that? he wondered as they all sped farther and farther toward nowhere.

CHAPTER 30

“Come,” called out Picard, and waited to see who would enter the ready room.

He had known there would be repercussions from his last set of orders. His involvement with the Heart was gathering momentum, and he was pulling his crew faster and faster along with him toward a murky climax that was beyond their understanding. It was beyond his, as well, or he would have tried harder to explain his actions. Their loyalty to him ran deep, but for how long could he take advantage of that faith?

“Do you ever put it down, Captain?”

Picard glanced up from his contemplation of the Heart to find that Counselor Troi had fixed him with a speculative look. It was a familiar expression, and one he had learned to distrust in the past.

“What are you talking about?” asked Picard, although he knew quite well what she meant.

Troi only smiled at his clumsy evasion.

“Its very presence seems to comfort you, physically as well as emotionally.”

Her observation was uncomfortably perceptive.

His ready room must have cooled by at least five degrees when life support services were reduced to conserve power, but Picard had barely felt the cold as long as he was in contact with the stone; and its weight, cupped in his hands or tucked in the crook of his arm, was a constant reminder of the protection it offered.

“So,” Troi persisted, “I couldn’t help wondering if setting the Heart aside distresses you. How long can you go without it?”

“Counselor,” said Picard with a forced smile, “you make it sound like an addiction.”

“Do I? That’s very interesting.”

“Oh, no,” he said with a shake of his head.

“I have no intention of getting drawn into a discussion about addiction and obsession. I can end this matter right here and now.”

Rising up from the sofa, the captain walked over to the far side of his office and tucked the stone on a high shelf. Stepping away from the wall unit, he said, “There, Counselor. Are you satisfied?”

“This is not something you must do to please me,” said the empath. Her dark eyes flitted up and down, measuring the distance from the floor to the shelf, a height that was well beyond her reach. “I only ask you to reflect on how the stone has affected you.

How do you feel about putting it away?”

“I feel nothing other than the desire to get a good night’s sleep.”

“Yes, you seem to spend much of your time alone these days.”

Really, there was no pleasing the woman.

“Would you prefer that I drop by Ten-Forward instead?”

“It’s not my preferences that are the issue, Captain. You should do what you wish.”

He uttered a mock groan. “And regardless of what I do, you’ll take notes and look pensive.”

“Probably,” said Troi with a good-natured laugh. “Good-night, Captain.”

The counselor walked out of the ready room, but her challenge concerning the Heart remained behind, taunting him. Even worse, the exchange with Troi revived memories of another warning.

It is not too late for me, T’Sara. I can still maintain control.

Picard shivered in the cool air and without thinking reached out for the Heart’s warmth.

He stopped himself before his fingers touched the rough surface of the stone, but the arrested motion seemed to rob him of an alternate purpose and direction. His original intention had been to resume his wait for a new dream to guide his next steps, but now the ready room seemed a bleak and uninviting place to sleep. Yet the thought of walking out onto the bridge filled him with a vague anxiety.

What should I do now?

Guinan looked out from under the broad brim of a burgundy bonnet. “Tea?” she asked of her new customer.

Picard nodded. “Tea.”

“One Earl Grey coming up.”

“No,” he said on impulse. “Not Earl Grey. I’ll have Srjula instead.”

“Srjula? An Andorian tea?” The hostess turned to a tidy row of canisters on a shelf behind her. Common teas could be requested from the food replicators, but the molecular patterns of the more exotic brands were rarely available, and the drink had to be made from real leaves. Guinan pried open the lid of one of the jars and peered at the contents. “We don’t get much call for this on the Enterprise.”

“I’m in the mood for something different.”

“Srjula is certainly different,” she said, setting a clear teacup and saucer on the bar. The crumpled leaves that she sprinkled into the cup were orange, but when hot water was poured over them, they turned bright yellow, then dissolved.

She sniffed experimentally at the pungent aroma, then grimaced. “I’ve never actually tasted it, myself.”

Picard picked up the saucer and took a tentative sip from the cup. His mouth pursed involuntarily. He took another sip.

“Yes, that’s perfect.”

“It is?” said Guinan.

He nodded emphatically. Srjula. The memory of its tart, bitter taste was borrowed from a dream, yet he knew that it was just as it should be.

Guinan shrugged and moved on to her next customer, yet Picard felt her gaze following him as he walked across the deck. He wound his way to a table where Beverly Crusher was finishing off a slice of pie. She hastily licked a smear of whipped cream off her upper lip.

“You came alone tonight, Captain.”

“Alone?” he said as he sat down across from her. A backdrop of deep space framed her body.

Crusher pointed to his hands, which were wrapped tightly around his teacup. “No rock.”

“Oh, that.” Picard loosen ed his grip; the warm, round shape between the palms of his hands had been familiar and reassuring. “I left it in my cabin. It’s not as if I can’t do without it.”

“No, of course not.” She made a token effort to hide her amusement by eating the last bite of her dessert, but he detected the ends of her smile curling up around the spoon.

“Let’s not talk about the Heart,” he said.

“That’s an excellent idea.” She shoved aside the empty plate and leaned forward. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Instead, why don’t we—” She stopped. Her nose wrinkled ever so slightly. “What on earth is that smell?”

“Tea,” said Picard, lifting the cup up to his lips.

“You’re drinking that?”

“Yes, of course.” He took a sip, but had to fight an impulse to spit out the liquid.

His craving for the astringent brew had faded. He swallowed anyway. “It’s delicious.”

As he set down the cup, he caught a flash of movement outside the Ten-Forward window.

“If you say so.” Crusher pulled back slightly and began again. “As I was saying, why don’t we—” She stopped again, obviously alarmed by the sudden change in his expression and the silence that had fallen over the entire room. “Captain? What’s wrong, Jean-Luc?”

He tried to answer, but his throat had closed too tightly to let the words escape.

They’re back.

The doctor checked back over her shoulder; she was the last to see it. A simple cubic shape hung in space, its baroque metallic structures gleaming softly in reflected starlight.

“Oh my god,” she cried. “It’s the Borg.”

As her words echoed through the room, flashing red lights began their staccato pulse and alert sirens sprang to life. Picard scrambled to his feet, overturning the table and chair in his haste, knowing only that he must get away quickly.

“Captain to the bridge! Captain to—” Riker’s intercom voice was drowned out by the high whine of a Borg transporter beam.

Picard froze in his tracks; the sound brought forth a memory of pain, a pain so fierce that he would do anything to escape it again.

Five Borg materialized in the center of the room, back-to-back in a tight formation like a satanic pentagram. Each took a step forward and began to fire straight ahead.

No! Not again. Please not again.

Another step, another round of fire.

Screams. People were screaming; people were falling to the deck; people were dying.

I should do something. I must do something. I’m the captain. But the terror that gripped him was so strong that he couldn’t move. If he moved, they would see him.

He watched instead.

He watched as Guinan pulled a phaser out from behind the counter. She was hit before she could even pull the trigger. Her body went up in flames.

The Borg took another step and five more people crumpled to the floor. A few writhed and groaned, the others lay still.

He watched as Beverly Crusher brushed past him, rushing to the aid of one of the dying crewmen. A sweep of a Borg arm sent her flying through the air. Her body landed at Picard’s feet, her back oddly twisted and her face slack and wooden.

One last step. A Borg was standing right in front of him.

Picard watched as it raised an arm and extruded a whirring metal rotor from the tip.

The twirling blades shredded the cloth of his uniform, the skin beneath, and then bored a hole straight through to his heart …

Picard woke with a burning sensation deep in his chest; there were other pains, needle-sharp and throbbing, embedded in his muscles and bones. Two years after their removal, his body still remembered exactly where the Borg implants had been placed. He clutched the front of his uniform and nearly retched at the feel of the damp, sticky cloth.

It’s only sweat.

He took a deep, shuddering breath. Not so bad. After all, this nightmare hadn’t wrenched tears and screams from him. He was beyond the need to drag Deanna Troi out of her bed to hear him babble about terror and cowardice and loss of control. This was just a predictable reaction to the presence of a captured Borg on board the Enterprise last month; Picard’s brief impersonation of Locutus had triggered uncomfortable memories …

… or the dream was a warning.

No, dammit, this has nothing to do with the Heart.

His fingers curled, cold and stiff, as if they yearned to wrap themselves around the stone’s fire. His chest was still aching. Had he experienced a routine nightmare or another vision? If the Heart could show him the past, could it also show him the future?

“Picard to bridge,” he called out as he swung his legs over the edge of the couch.

“Data here, Captain.”

He rose and moved across the room to his bookshelves. “Lieutenant, increase speed to warp six and initiate evasive maneuvers.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me. Maintain our previous destination coordinates, just get us there a different way than originally planned.”

“Yes, sir.”

The captain reached up to the shelf and closed his hands around the Heart. Its warmth flooded through him, washing away the tension in his muscles.

The pain in his chest began to fade.

CHAPTER 31

Warden Chandat was accustomed to spending long hours sitting in place while maintaining an air of dignity and supreme authority over tedious proceedings. He had developed this skill presiding over countless Faculty meetings, but he was somewhat disillusioned to discover that the demands on a starship commander were not so very different from his own administrative duties. The bridge chair was more comfortable than the one in the council chamber, Chandat conceded, but the view was less interesting.

Over the last two days, the novelty of staring forward at nothing but stars on a flat screen had worn off.

“Estimated time of arrival is one hour and five minutes,” announced Dean Shagret from the helm. He, unlike the warden, could constantly entertain himself by scanning the console readouts and playing with the controls.

“Maintain course and speed.” The phrase felt less foreign on Chandat’s tongue after several repetitions. Without such squelching directives, the dean had an annoying tendency to practice new flight maneuvers that sent the ship careening in unexpected directions.

“Initiating long-range sensor scans,” announced Thorina. This would be her third scan within the last hour, but whenever Shagret issued one of his status reports, she was spurred to activate her console again.

Their rivalry had started soon after the Sullivan’s departure from Dynasia when the two deans began squabbling over who among the Faculty had sufficient seniority to sit in the command area. Recognizing the importance of this symbolic center of authority, Chandat had reluctantly given up his place at navigation to secure his position as leader of the expedition.

Then his first official act as the ship’s commander had been to order the two deans to posts at opposite ends of the bridge.

A muffled sound drew Chandat’s attention to the old man seated by his side. The professor had remained silent until now.

“So near …” whispered Manja. His voice was husky with sorrow. “If only T’Sara could have lived long enough to share this moment with me.”

Chandat would have preferred to keep the historian out of sight; Diat was a constant reminder that the basis for this venture was taken from a hoary myth in the Dream literature. However, banishing the professor from the bridge would have been too cruel. Manja thought this mission had been mounted on his behalf, as a champion of T’Sara, and he would have been hurt by any attempt at exclusion. As it was, the old man would be hurt eventually, but Chandat tried not to cast his thoughts that far ahead.

Fortunately, the demands of operating a starship had fully occupied the attention of the other professors and prevented them from asking too many questions about their destination. However, the Sullivan would arrive at the Appointed Place soon, and then the folly of this quixotic search for the Gem would be all too apparent to all the Dynasians.

“Chandat!” Thorina’s cry of alarm jerked the warden out of his reverie. “I’ve got something on the scanners!”

“Could you be more specific?” asked Chandat.

Since she had issued several false alarms during the voyage, he had quickly learned not to attach too much significance to such outbursts.

“There’s a Federation starship dead ahead, registry number NCC-1701D.”

The warden started up out of his chair and twirled around to face the dean. “Are you sure?”

“Confirmed,” said Oomalo, peering down over the dean’s shoulder at the tactical screen.

“Their trajectory matches ours. It appears that we will not be the first to arrive at the Appointed Place.”

This news was most unsettling; the warden had never thought to factor another starship into any of his contingency plans. Chandat wracked his memory for an appropriate command response. “Open hailing frequencies.”

“Do what?” asked Thorina, who was still flustered by the unexpected success of her scan. “Oh, yes, the radio.”

With a dubious frown, she jabbed her finger at the midsection of the communications console. A high-pitched squeal of static burst over the bridge speakers. Thorina jabbed again and the noise turned into a stream of chattering voices.

As Chandat listened to the oddly familiar, yet incomprehensible language, Shagret called out with disdain, “That’s not Federation Standard.”

“The incoming transmission is not from the starship,” said Oomalo. The native professor edged in beside Dean Thorina, andwitha refreshing display of competence, rapidly tapped a sequence over the console surface.

“Activating the universal translator.”

“I would have done that next,” snapped Thorina, but she moved aside to give Oomalo better access to the controls.

The abstract sounds suddenly turned into words.

“… must rely on sheer numbers to maintain our advantage. The Federation’s weapons technology is superior to that of any one of our vessels.”

Oomalo glanced over at the tactical monitor. “We appear to have intercepted intership communications from a group of vessels just entering the sector. They also are headed for the Appointed Place.”

An answering transmission crackled over the subspace radio channel. “The unDiWahn captains are united as one mighty fist, Admiral. We shall crush the Enterprise and reclaim the Gem.”

“DiWahn?” cried out Manja. “Did they really say DiWahn?”

“By the Three Gates,” said Chandat in amazement. “I heard it, too.”

“Ancient history is coming alive, Warden!”

Excitement at the discovery wiped away the old man’s grief. He was a Dynasian after all, and knowledge was the first love of all their race.

Chandat’s respect for T’Sara’s scholarship overwhelmed his own concerns for just a moment. Thanks to the Vulcan, two branches of the scattered Iconian peoples were finally reunited on the other side of the Gate.

Oomalo, unmoved by legends that were alien to her own people, was more practical in her reaction to the revelation. “We had better make a friendly overture to these DiWahns before they mistake us for a Federation faction. If we offer to combine forces, then the starship will be easily overpowered.”

“How very inconvenient,” muttered Chandat to himself. Fortunately, his heretical comment was drowned out by the ragged victory cheers of the Faculty.

The ancient engineers of Iconia had obviously respected the need for introspection.

On each of their starships they had reserved space for a small niche that would shelter a body in meditation. After boarding the flagship of the unDiWahn fleet, Master Kierad@an had retreated inside just such a niche and spent the duration of the journey through space in consultation with himself.

Traditionally, the reciting of the Dream Lore was done in a circle of the Faithful, but Kierad@an was conducting a private Telling.

In the circle of his own mind, he was both dream-teller and listener as he reviewed the accumulated knowledge of his order and searched for new insights. The men and women of the Faithful had spent their lives exploring the lessons laced in the dreams of the Gem-Bearers, and now Kierad@an had five short days in which to judge this wisdom for the last time.

“Master.”

The unDiWahn was pulled out of his thoughts by a low voice from outside the enclosure. Admiral Jakat would not have interrupted this meditation without good cause, but Kierad@an resented the intrusion anyway. He had so little time left.

Drawing aside the curtain that closed off the niche from the outer room, he said, “Yes, Daramad@an?”

The admiral stepped closer to the high shelf where Kierad@an sat. He moved with an unusually stiff gait. “We have established communications with a lone starship of Federation registry; however, the crew claims to be Iconian. Warden Chandat of Dynasia asserts that they, too, are on course for the Appointed Place.”

This news explained the tension locked in the muscles of the admiral’s body. Kierad@an felt his own frame stiffen in reaction to this unexpected company.

“So, the Dynasians have survived on the other side of their Gate.”

This was no cause for rejoicing. Another contingent of Iconians could complicate his plans for the Gem.

Despite this risk, Kierad@an decided he would allow the strangers to continue … for now. After all, they might have a place in the Dreaming, too.

“Propose an alliance to the Dynasians,” said Kierad@an, “but make it clear that they must follow our lead and let me negotiate for the Gem. If they agree to these terms, let them live.”

“As you wish, Master.” The admiral withdrew without asking for further instruction. He was a capable leader in his own right and required little direction.

Closing the curtain, Kierad@an resumed his meditation on the future of the Dream Gem.

Over the past century, those who held the title of master had reached a consensus of opinion as to the role of the Faithful in the Gem’s affairs. Upon his investment as leader of the order, Kierad@an had pledged to honor that agreement when he reached the Appointed Place, yet the autonomy of his position encompassed the authority to change his mind. It was that freedom that troubled him now. His sworn duty had seemed much easier to contemplate on DiWahn than it did here in space, drawing ever nearer to the Gem. With each hour that slipped away, he discovered new arguments with which to counter the decision of his elders.

Even if he affirmed the conclusion reached by his predecessors, Master Kierad@an wondered if he had the strength of will to keep his feet on the true path they had outlined. The title he bore was for mastery over oneself, not over others, but he was the first of the unDiWahn to actually face the Gem and test his convictions.

Kanda Jiak, the last Iconian to be called master, had failed. He had paid for that failure with his life.

CHAPTER 32

Like a gull skimming the still surface of an ocean, the USS Enterprise dropped out of warp speed and coasted into a leisurely orbit around a cooling star.

The white dwarf had no name, just a number assigned by astronomers as they charted the desolate reaches of space beyond the Federation. The star had burned in isolation for nearly five thousand years; but now, at the end of that long wait, the dwarf’s single companion was drawing near again.

The heat of their meeting had transformed the speeding ball of rock and ice into a streak of luminous vapor; thus, for a few short months along the course of its elliptical orbit, the comet flared into prominence. Later, once it passed perihelion and fell farther and farther away into cold fringes of the system, the tail would fade, and the comet would continue in anonymous invisibility for another five thousand years.

Riker knew that comets were nothing more than stray pebbles adrift in space, kicked into motion by tidal waves of gravity. Over the years of his Starfleet service, he had seen wonders of far greater beauty and mystery than this lonely traveler in its brief flash of glory, but perhaps it was precisely that ephemeral quality that moved him with a mixture of sadness and joy.

When he entered the ready room, Riker found the captain staring out his window at the same bleak tableau of the white dwarf and its consort. With a softly uttered sigh of irritation, Picard turned away from the scene to hear his first officer’s status report.

“Engineering has managed to restore our deflector shield capacity to fifty-seven percent,” said Riker, “and Geordi expects another ten percent improvement in the next few hours, but for now we’re extremely vulnerable.”

Picard’s gaze kept flicking away from his first officer; he seemed to constantly fight against the impulse to look over his shoulder. His hands were equally restless, reaching for the Heart, then darting back to the data tablet on his desk. “Do the best you can with what we have, Number One.”

One role that Riker often played with the captain was devil’s advocate; Picard had always encouraged him to present any opposing arguments that would offer a different perspective to critical issues. Rarely, however, had Riker felt that the stakes were so high as now. “The best we can do, Captain, is to leave this area before we’re attacked.”

This statement secured Picard’s undivided attention and sharpened his voice. “Are you questioning my present command decisions?”

“No, sir, I’m not, but our orders—” “My orders,” said Picard with icy reserve, “were to keep the Heart out of the hands of the enemies of the Federation. I intend to do just that.”

Riker’s intuition led him toward a disturbing corollary. “But you’re not going to take it back into Federation space, are you?”

“No.” Picard lifted the stone up off the desk as if to include the Heart in the discussion of its fate. “Self-determination is one of the basic tenets of Starfleet’s philosophy; as a sentient being, this entity must be accorded control over its own destiny. Just as important, in my judgment the interests of the Federation are best served by removing the Heart from our affairs. Captain Duregh’s betrayal convinced me that its continuing presence would eventually destabilize our current political alliances.”

“Can you tell me how you plan to remove it?” asked Riker. He had hoped for just such an opening to discuss the captain’s plans for the Heart.

“This place is essential. We must stay here until …” As he groped for words, Picard unwittingly revealed the depth of his uncertainty.

“… until the Heart’s mission has completely unfolded.”

“The longer we remain here, the greater the chance that the unDiWahn—” “The unDiWahn are not a danger, Number One.” With the Heart still clutched in his hands like a talisman warding off evil, Picard said, “You’ve seen what it can do with your own eyes. As long as I hold the Heart, they can’t even touch us.”

Even before his return to the bridge, Troi could sense the rising intensity of Riker’s emotions.

When he finally stepped out of the ready room, however, she was relieved to see that Riker had successfully masked his frustration and anxiety behind an expression of vague geniality.

She watched as the first officer sauntered across the command deck. His carefree air would convince anyone but an empath that he had just enjoyed a casual exchange with the captain. A quick sidelong glance toward the aft deck nearly gave Riker away, but Lieutenant Worf was too absorbed with his tactical sensor readings to catch the telltale sign of wariness.

Once Riker settled down beside her, however, he shook his head. No success.

“Now what?” asked Troi in a low voice.

He shrugged. “Your turn again.”

“No, I can feel his emotional reserve heighten whenever I approach him. If he won’t even listen to me, he certainly won’t relinquish the Heart to my care.”

“Well, then …”

In perfect accord, she and Riker both turned and fixed a speculative look on the android working quietly at the helm.

Since Picard appeared entranced by the view outside his window, Data stood patiently in front of the ready room desk, waiting for the captain to break out of his reverie. While he waited, the android considered how he might best attempt to fulfill Riker’s directive.

Persuading Captain Picard to give up the Heart would prove an interesting challenge in interpersonal dynamics, but it was an area in which Data judged himself to be somewhat inadequate.

Considering the strong emotions that were involved, Data doubted that he would be able to succeed where Doctor Crusher and Counselor Troi had failed.

Then, catching sight of one of the books on the office desk, he was reminded of the captain’s deep respect for T’Sara and Ambassador Sarek. Vulcans did not appeal to emotions, yet Picard was often persuaded by these writings.

Perhaps logic could provide a more promising approach.

Under his breath, Picard muttered, “How long must I wait for an answer?”

Data determined the captain was addressing the Heart resting in his hands. Apparently he received no response from the stone, because Picard then swiveled his chair around to face the android.

“What is it, Mr. Data? Am I to be subjected to a visit by each of my senior officers in turn? How can I think straight with these continual interruptions?”

Without any preamble to soften his intent, Data said, “We are concerned about the extent to which your actions are being governed by the Heart.”

“Then you need worry yourself no longer. I am acting of my own volition.” Evidently Picard regretted the overly curt nature of this response, because he stopped to take a deep breath and then said, “Data, there is something the Heart needs, a place it must reach, for reasons I don’t entirely understand, that I may be incapable of understanding, yet its urgency is unmistakable.”

“Does this mean you will relinquish the stone so that it can reach that destination, Captain?”

“Yes … of course.” Picard’s eyes widened ever so slightly as he contemplated that scenario. “But not until the time is right.”

“Intriguing. When exactly will that time occur?”

“Not yet,” said the captain. “I’ll know when the time comes.”

“I admire your certainty. However, my analysis of the Heart’s history indicates that if you delay too long, the stone will ensure its own release by leaving us vulnerable to attack.”

“No! The Heart offers us protection.”

“Does it?” asked Data. “On this journey you speak of, the Heart has left a trail of death and devastation in its wake. This is not legend or myth, but fact. We have seen the evidence ourselves in the destruction of the Orions and the Ferengi.”

“The Heart is not to blame for those deaths,” said Picard with a vehement shake of his head. “The Orions died due to their own greed, as did the Ferengi; they courted their own downfall.”

“And what of the Vulcans? Did T’Sara deserve her fate?”

A spasm of grief, akin to pain, creased the captain’s face. This time he shook his head more gently.

“From what I have observed,” said Data, “the protection it offers has a tendency to fail if the Heart can secure a more useful host. When will it tire of your custody?”

Picard fell silent for a moment as his thoughts turned inward. “You aren’t the first one to warn me that I’ve held on too long.” In a voice tinged with a Vulcan accent, he recited, “It constantly struggles to free itself from the tangle of our grasping hands.”

Encouraged by this admission of doubt, the android pressed his argument even harder. “In the years that we have served together, you have stressed how much you value my unique perspective. Captain, trust to my objectivity, to my lack of emotion, when I tell you that the Heart is more of a danger to us than any alien fleet. Give it up now, while you still can. If you rely on its powers to shield us from harm, we will be destroyed.”

He held out his hands, palms upturned, to accept the stone.

“Data,” said Picard, “neither Surak or T’Sara would lay this burden on another living being. I don’t have that right either.”

“Remember that I have held the stone before with complete immunity. As an android, I cannot be seduced by its powers.”

Picard’s hands trembled when he lifted up the Heart, as if this slight effort required a concentration of all of his strength and will. “Then take—” “Bridge to Captain Picard,” boomed Worf’s voice over the intercom. “The unDiWahn fleet has reentered the perimeter of our sensorfield … the ships have been dispersed in a surround pattern and are drawing in toward us.”

“Surrounded …” Picard froze in mid-gesture. “Data, I won’t leave the Enterprise vulnerable to attack!”

This was as much a plea for help as it was a declaration of defiance. Data urged the obvious solution. “Then we must leave this place while there is still time to break through their formation. At our fastest warp speed we can outpace the entire unDiWahn fleet.”

“Leave?” Despite his reluctance to accept this suggestion, the captain was unable to marshal a counter argument. “Yes … I suppose we must.”

Data reached out to take hold of the Heart.

“Captain,” said Worf again. “Sensors have detected a Federation starship approaching the sector.”

The android’s finger brushed against air.

Picard had pulled the stone back a few inches. “The cavalry has reached us just in time, Data.”

“The registry number is that of the Miranda-class USS Sullivan,” continued the security chief. “However, they are not answering our hails, and Starfleet records indicate the vessel was last assigned to diplomatic duty in another quadrant.”

“Yet another betrayal,” said Data, quick to underscore their growing danger. “All the more reason for us to depart this sector.”

“On the contrary,” said Picard unexpectedly. “This proves the futility of retreat. Enemies follow in our wake wherever we go. Even if we escape these forces, new enemies and new betrayals will be waiting for us at every port. We carry violence with us like a plague. The chase must end here.”

A calmness seemed to settle over the captain, smoothing away the furrows of confusion and doubt that had etched themselves into his face.

Cradling the stone to his chest, Picard said, “I will need the Heart for just a while longer.”

CHAPTER 33

“Make it so.”

The huddle of officers around the captain flew apart. Like players aiming for their marks on a stage, they all moved briskly to their bridge stations.

Picard took a step forward to center himself in the command area, and Riker planted himself by the captain’s side; Worf assumed his background role at the tactical console; and in the foreground, Data took the helm. Transporter Chief O’Brien, the one foreign element in this familiar tableau, marched through the turbolift’s opening doors and disappeared.

“Status report, Mr. Worf?”

“Sensors show the unDiWahn fleet is still closing at six hundred thousand kilometers …”

Images began to form on the viewscreen. From a distance, the unDiWahn ships appeared surprisingly delicate. Their colorful hulls were curled in spirals and waves, like autumn leaves twisting in the wind. The thick saucer section of the lone Miranda-class starship was stiff and ungainly in the midst of these undulating shapes.

“… five hundred thousand … four hundred thousand kilometers.”

A hush fell over the bridge as the alien ships drifted closer and closer until their fluting edges nearly touched. The assembled fleet formed the thin shell of a sphere with the Enterprise captured in the hollow center. For all its beauty, the pattern was also an overwhelming display of military strength.

“Captain,” said Worf in a low voice.

“We are being hailed by the unDiWahn flagship.”

“Establish visual communications, Lieutenant.”

Squaring his shoulders, Picard mentally prepared himself for the raising of the curtain that would reveal him to an audience. His hands tightened their hold on the Heart, the key element in the unfolding drama.

The chase would end now; the last blood to be spilled would be here, on the bridge of the Enterprise.

To the uninitiated, the gray rock was an unremarkable object, but Kierad@an knew that its plain cover masked a crystalline structure that sparkled in the dark. What could not be seen, what could only be felt, was the heat that radiated from it. If only he could warm his hands on the Dream Gem for just a few moments …

With the greatest of difficulty, the master raised his eyes to meet the Gem-Bearer’s gaze. “I am Kierad@an, leader of the Faithful.”

“I am Jean-Luc Picard, captain of the Enterprise.” While the captain introduced his senior officers, Kierad@an noted that fatigue had left its marks on Picard’s face, bleaching his skin of color and sharpening the planes of his skull. His fingers were rigid with tension, gripping the Gem in a vise of bone and muscle.

As soon as the tedious formalities were concluded, Kierad@an spoke. “Captain, I request that you return the Gem to the keeping of the unDiWahn. We are its Guardians and have charge of its future.”

Picard shook his head. “With all due respect, Kierad@an, I don’t recognize your claim of ownership. The Gem remains with me.”

“Brave words for the commander of a starship far from the safety of Federation space.”

Pic ard’s first officer strutted forward, filling more of the oval viewscreen. “Our safety is of less importance than the security of the Federation.

This crew has pledged to destroy the stone rather than let it fall into the wrong hands.”

“I do not believe you,” said Kierad@an.

“No bearer would willingly give up possession of the Gem.”

“We’re going to prove you wrong.” Riker then looked back to Picard as if expecting the older man to echo this challenge. When the Gem-Bearer was silent, Riker prompted him by saying, “Captain, we agreed we must put an end to—” “No,” said Picard, sidling away from the first officer. “No, I’ve changed my mind. Such an extreme measure won’t be necessary after all.”

Riker’s arrogance gave way to dismay.

“Captain!”

“Number One, with the Heart in my possession I can defeat anyone who tries to take it away from me.” Picard’s threat was directed at his first officer, rather than the unDiWahn.

“As you can see,” said Kierad@an to the young officer, “this matter is between myself and your captain.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” said Riker.

He slapped at a metal insignia on his chest. “Now!”

All the doors to the bridge snapped open at once. As security guards stormed through the portals, the officer at the helm slid out from behind his console and lunged toward the captain.

“Data, no!” cried out Picard.

The pale-skinned helmsman had wrapped his hands around the Gem in an attempt to displace Picard’s hold. The Klingon on the aft deck tried to rush to the captain’s aid, but armed guards immediately dragged him away from the bridge railing.

It took five of them to keep the warrior’s arms pinned behind his back.

Kierad@an had expected trouble; it was an inevitable companion to the Gem’s travels.

“Daramad@an,” the master whispered, “prepare to fire at my next command.”

In the frame of the viewscreen, the two men were still grappling for dominance. The Gem-Bearer’s face was contorted by a fierce possessive rage that would have intimidated most assailants.

However, with a display of unusual strength, Data wrenched the stone out of the captain’s grasp.

While two guards wrestled Picard facedown onto the deck, Data raised the stone up into the air like the head of a vanquished enemy.

“The Gem is mine!”

Kierad@an’s clenched fist held the admiral at his side in check. Negotiation was still in everyone’s best interests. “You have only weakened your position, Enterprise. It takes time to learn how to use those powers.”

“I do not need any time at all,” said Data, “because I plan to destroy the Gem now.”

Alarmed by the man’s resoluteness, Kierad@an opened his fist and said, “Daramad@an, fire!”

The Enterprise bridge rocked and swayed as the Iconian weapons salvo collided against its defense shields. This sudden assault threw the crew off-balance. Cries and shouts rang out as they confronted the deadly consequences of their resistance. From his vantage point as a spectator, Kierad@an also saw Picard take clever advantage of this widespread distraction.

“Worf!” screamed the captain as he twisted out of his guard’s choke-hold. “Stop Data!”

With a mighty heave, the Klingon threw off the men holding him. One swipe of his muscular arm ripped a phaser from a guard’s belt. Roaring like a wounded animal, he took aim at the android and fired.

A narrow red beam lanced out across the bridge.

With reflexes faster than Kierad@an would have believed possible, Data spun around and blocked the force of the phaser blast with the Gem itself.

The stone absorbed the energy like a sponge. For a moment, the master thought it would survive the blast, but then the soft glow at its crystal center ignited.

The Gem and its new bearer disappeared in a fiery bloom of light.

“Don’t move!”

The security guard planted his knee in the small of Picard’s back and shoved the captain flat against the deck. The air was knocked out of his lungs by the impact, and a raw scrape on his cheek burned hotly as his face was ground into the short fibers of the carpet. Picard battled for breath against the crushing weight of the body pinning him down.

“The unDiWahn have severed the communication link …” Riker’s voice came from a direction behind and above where Picard lay, so the first officer must have taken over the tactical console. “… and the fleet appears to be retreating.”

Pinpoints of colored light were forming on the captain’s retinas when Riker finally said, “We did it!”

The guard released his hold.

With a soft groan of relief, Picard rolled over onto his back and sucked in a lungful of air. When the dancing spots had faded away, he made a weak attempt to sit up and discovered that his ribs were painfully bruised. Two security guards grabbed hold of his arms and pulled him up to a standing position.

“Sorry, sir,” said a third guard as she hastily brushed off the front of the captain’s tunic. “I guess we got a little carried away.”

Picard mustered a wan smile to allay their anxiety, but his first words were directed to the ship’s intercom. “Bridge to transporter room. Good job, Chief.”

“Thank you, Captain,” replied O’Brien. A flash of white light exploded in front of the helm for a second time. “I enjoy a spot of fancy work now and then.”

The entire crew erupted into laughter, shattering the tension that had gripped them all during the confrontation with the unDiWahn. Picard led a round of appreciative applause, but even after the clapping ended, high spirits persisted. Worf sauntered back to his tactical station, the security squads jostled their way off the bridge, and Riker vaulted over the aft deck railing to land with a heavy thud in front of the captain.

“Your bluff worked!” exulted Riker. “They really believe Worf destroyed Data and the Heart.”

Picard tugged at his rumpled tunic.

“Yes, Number One, it seems that—” “Captain,” cut in Worf. “The unDiWahn fleet has halted its retreat.

All vessels are holding position at five hundred thousand kilometers, just outside of phaser range.”

This statement hit Picard with greater force than any physical blow. Robbed of speech by bitter disappointment, the captain whirled around to stare at the viewscreen. The unDiWahn ships sparkled like metallic sequins scattered through space.

“At least we’ve bought some time, Captain,” said Riker in a subdued whisper.

But time to do what? wondered Picard. Only minutes had passed since the Heart had been taken from him, yet he could already feel his empty hands aching to hold the stone again.

What if I must destroy it after all?

Master Kierad@an stared out the port window of his cabin, studying the Appointed Place. He had no interest in the star, just its single orbiting satellite. The comet was a cosmic hourglass, and the length of its tail indicated that valuable time had been lost.

“Do they take us for fools, Master?” The sound of Daramad@an’s heavy tread traced the admiral’s progress back and forth from one end of the room to the other. “That was a trick, a show of lights meant to dazzle and confuse the simpleminded. The Gem has not been destroyed!”

“No,” said Kierad@an softly. “I don’t sense that it has left the Dreaming in that manner.”

Yet he wondered if this conviction was based on hope rather than on truth. His mind was spinning from the attempt to make sense of the scene he had just witnessed. Picard was the last of the Gem-Bearers to appear in the Dreaming; yet even though he had just given up the stone to another being, his action had not affected the Telling.

“Let us attack and take—” “No!” The temptation to agree with Daramad@an was strong, but there was so little time left in which to act. Recovering the Gem by force might take too long, and the consequences of such a miscalculation would reverberate for five thousand years. “There is something different about the one they call Data. He holds the Gem without being touched by it.”

Could I do the same? Do I dare take the place of someone who has already passed that test.

Kierad@an looked deep inside himself and did not like what he saw.

Forsaking intellect, trusting to his instincts, the master said, “Do not attack, Admiral.

Instead, your fleet must remain in position to ensure that the Enterprise does not leave before the Appointed Time.”

“But I thought our mission was to take possession of the Gem!”

I thought so, too. “We must trust that Picard will aid the Gem to fulfill its destiny.” If the captain failed in his task, the Gem would have to wait yet again to complete its journey.

“You speak in riddles, Master.”

Kierad@an gestured to the port window.

“Watch. You will understand soon enough.”

When Picard stepped inside his ready room, his gaze was drawn unerringly to the Heart. His fears that it might have been damaged by the intraship transport were eased by the sight of the stone nestled in the crook of Data’s arm.

“We’re at a stalemate with the unDiWahn,” explained Picard when Data looked up from his examination of the wall aquarium.

Evidently the android considered the Heart an object of less interest than a fish swimming idly in place. “However, visual communications have been severed, so it’s safe for you to return to the bridge.”

Data acknowledged the news with an impassive nod. “Thank you, Captain.”

I chose to give it up.

That knowledge did not lessen Picard’s sharp pangs of jealousy as he watched Data carry the Heart across the room. Each step brought the two of them closer and closer. When the android passed near enough to touch, Picard lashed out with one arm. The fingers of his hand wrapped around Data’s wrist, just inches away from the Heart.

Picard worked to keep his voice steady. “I still haven’t discovered the reason for the Heart ‘s journey to this place. If only I could dream one more time …”

“Captain, we agreed that it would be best if I retain possession of the Heart. I do not think we should change that arrangement.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Picard forced himself to release his hold on the android’s arm and walk away.

Heedless of direction, the captain ended up at the ready room window. Picard studied the scene outside the starship to distract himself from regrets.

According to Worf’s calculations, the comet was approaching perihelion, its closest distance to the white dwarf, and thus the height of brilliance for its gaseous tail.

Catching a glimpse of the Heart’s reflection in the window, Picard’s thoughts rocketed back to the events of the last hour. On the bridge, when the time came to actually let go of the stone, he had tried to fend off Data. Only the android’s superior strength had ensured that the staged event was resolved according to plan.

“Data, you’d better leave—” “Bridge to Captain Picard,” called out Riker. “Sensors have detected an ion disturbance off the port bow.”

Somewhere beyond the comet, Picard spotted a pinprick of gleaming light. It was surrounded by a shimmering aura of radiant energy.

“Indications are that a wormhole is forming out there.”

“A wormhole?” whispered Picard to himself.

A split second later, the pinprick expanded into a glowing sphere, then exploded outward. He found himself staring into the gaping maw of a tunnel that had bored its way through light-years of space.

“Data, that’s it!” Picard marveled at the ingenuity of those who had built the Guardian of Forever. “The comet is merely a herald for the wormhole’s appearance. If the Heart passes through that cosmic gate, it will be sown in some far distant galaxy.”

“That is an interesting hypothesis, Captain.”

“No, Data, this is more than just a theory; it is the fulfillment of a dream.” Tapping his comm insignia, the captain said, “Picard to transporter chief. Mr. O’Brien, I have one last miracle for you to perform.”

Moments later, Picard listened to the high whine of the transporter beam at his back. Without looking, he knew, he could feel in his very bones, that Data’s hands were now empty.

Pressing his palms flat against the window’s cold surface, the captain searched in vain for some glimpse of the Heart’s reappearance. The stone was too small and too dark for him to trace its passage through the vast tunnel.

As the comet passed perihelion and began its long fall toward night, the ring of the wormhole rippled and quavered, then collapsed. This fleeting channel into another galaxy was gone, and it would not return for another five thousand years.

With the shuddering breath of a man waking from a long sleep, Picard pulled away from the window.

“Our part in this story has ended now, Data.”

CHAPTER 34

“We are being hailed by the unDiWahn,” said Worf.

Picard nodded and turned toward the main viewscreen.

With one word, Kierad@an could order his forces to advance and destroy the Enterprise in a storm of fire. Picard had accepted his own death as the price for the Heart’s escape, but the loss of his ship and crew filled him with bitter regret.

The master appeared. His face bore a serene smile.

“Good-bye, Gem-Bearer,” said Kierad@an.

“Our guardianship is over, so it is time for us to leave this place.”

Before the captain could reply, the leader of the Faithful had faded off the bridge viewscreen, displaced by an image of deep space.

“Do you think he means it?” asked Riker.

“Are they really leaving?”

The captain nodded. Somehow the unDiWahn had sensed the stone’s passage through the wormhole.

He would have expected knowledge of its loss to trigger a violent retaliation against the Enterprise, yet Kierad@an had addressed him with respect.

Gem-Bearer. It seemed a hollow title to Picard now that the Heart was gone.

A patch of color flashed across the screen, then another. One by one, the unDiWahn ships were breaking away from their spherical formation to gather around their flagship. When the last vessel had reached the tail end of the swarm, they all took flight. Soon distance worked its magic, and the deadly fleet was transformed into a cloud of butterflies fluttering away on a summer breeze.

In their wake, however, the Faithful had left behind a lumbering stepchild.

“We are being hailed by the USS Sullivan,” announced Worf.

“On screen, Lieutenant.”

The view shifted once again, this time to the bridge of a starship. Picard winced when he took a close look at the man sitting in the captain’s chair. He had a greenish-purple bruise on his forehead and a jagged scratch down one cheek. “You look like hell, Richard.”

“Oh, these are old wounds, Jean-Luc,” said Captain Mycelli, shrugging off his injuries.

“As soon as the unDiWahn fleet cut loose, the Dynasians surrendered peacefully.

I’m back in command of the Sullivan.”

“Do you need additional security?” asked Riker.

“No, the ringleader is in custody, and …”

Mycelli was rendered speechless by the sight of Data returning to his place at the helm.

He stared at the android for several seconds, then looked back to Picard. “I look forward to reading your mission report, Captain.”

“I’m sure you’re not the only one, Captain,” said Picard with a wry smile.

To his relief, however, Mycelli did not ask for details, and the exchange of further amenities was brief.

“Number One,” said Picard when contact with the Sullivan had ended, “it’s time for us to leave as well.”

Lowering himself into the captain’s chair, Picard let his first officer arrange the details of their departure. Orders and confirmations echoed across the bridge until Data said, “Course laid in for Vulcan.”

The crew fell silent.

Picard had tested their loyalty to the limit on this mission, so he could hardly resent their anxiety as they waited for him to utter one crucial word.

“Engage.”

Anger was not a useful emotion for a diplomat, reflected Ambassador Tommas as she entered the security complex of the Sullivan. Allowing such a simplistic emotion to overwhelm her thoughts would only hinder her analysis of the Dynasian situation.

Damn him!

The hijacking of the starship was essentially a political act, yet she had been personally betrayed by Warden Chandat’s actions. Trust was an integral component of forging ties between the member planets of the Federation, and that link began between individuals. How could she reconcile her deep respect for Keyda Chandat with the unpleasant fact that he had taken advantage of her overtures of friendship?

Steeling herself for the coming confrontation, Tommas stepped up to the portal of a security cell.

On the other side of the glowing frame, the warden was seated on a narrow cot. Some prisoners might slump or lounge in captivity, but he held himself erect, as if overseeing an invisible council. Even in detention the man appeared to be in complete control of his surroundings; however, his followers were not so self-assured. After Chandat’s surrender, any effective resistance from the other academics had collapsed entirely.

“Good evening, Ambassador,” said Chandat with a gracious nod of his head.

Tommas could not bring herself to echo the warden’s civility. “For the Faculty’s crime against Starfleet, our Council has ruled that Dynasia will be barred from admission to the Federation for at least a century.”

“A century?” He appeared curiously unruffled by this lengthy sentence of punishment. If anything, the corners of his mouth turned upward with smug satisfaction.

“Warden, I don’t believe you comprehend the severity of your offenses.”

“Of course, I do, Ambassador.”

Uttering a sigh of exasperation, the Dynasian leaned forward and spoke in the didactic tone of a professor instructing an especially dim student. “A century of grace will ease the pressures that have splintered the Faculty into warring factions. With time, when the conservative members have all died off, a new generation of Dynasians may choose to reapply for admission to the Federation … and deserve it.”

For the first time, Tommas realized how seriously she had underestimated the warden’s commitment to his people. “You planned this outcome from the beginning.”

Chandat’s smile broadened. “My scheme was nearly undone by the appearance of the unDiWahn, but fortunately Captain Picard’s clever ruse convinced them to retreat, and it gave me an excuse to surrender the Sullivan.

Historians may record this foiled grab for the Gem as my greatest failure, yet the stone has granted me my heart’s desire I have restored peace to my planet.”

As a counterpoint to inner reflection, the ancient Iconian engineers had also designed an observation chamber for looking outward. The room was missing any flight controls, so the curving transparent walls served no functional purpose beyond fostering contemplation of the universe.

Kierad@an was deeply grateful for the change of scenery after the prolonged examination of his own soul.

Over the days of their return journey to DiWahn, he would have the freedom to enjoy this expansive vista of stars.

The admiral of the fleet was less inclined to philosophical musings. After a cursory glance to check the formation of the armada trailing behind the flagship, Daramad@an continued his argument against their retreat. “But Master, the powers of the Gem could have carried our people back to the grandeur of our Iconian ancestors.”

“We fell from that height because Jiak held on to the Gem too long. Our duty as Guardians was to make atonement for his misjudgment, not to repeat past mistakes.”

This had been the consensus of a long line of masters, and Kierad@an had adhered to the s pirit, if not the letter, of their directive. He had forsaken the honor of personally sending the Gem on its way through the wormhole, but then he had also avoided the temptation to keep it for another five thousand years.

A heavy sigh from Daramad@an signaled an acceptance, if not an understanding, of his leader’s wisdom. “Having left this battlefield empty-handed, must the Order of the Faithful disband?”

“No, Admiral, there is a great deal of work still to be done. A new era has begun for the descendants of dead Iconia. You and I will return to a country that is at peace with its neighbors for the first time in centuries; your fleet will serve the needs of our planet, not a war-mongering king. Our store of knowledge will be shared with all who seek it.”

Iconia’s scattered children had spent too many centuries resisting their fate. With some sadness, but even greater pride, Master Kierad@an announced, “The unDiWahn are now the DiWahn.”

Ten-Forward provided one of the best scenic views aboard the Enterprise, but tonight Picard had been unsettled by a sense of vulnerability when he entered the lounge. Halfway through dinner, he angled his chair to avoid looking out the spacious windows. After that, his sense of dread gradually dissipated.

“Earl Grey?” asked Guinan as she passed by the table.

“Yes, please,” said Picard. “Most definitely Earl Grey.”

For some reason the mention of tea touched off the memory of a sharp, bitter taste. The basis of this odd association hovered just out of reach.

“Jean-Luc?”

He blinked, then realized that he had been staring at his dinner companion without truly seeing her.

At least Beverly was smiling at his distraction.

It was a generous reaction considering he had invited the doctor to join him, then proceeded to lapse into longer and longer silences.

“Jean-Luc, why don’t we—” “Here you are.” Guinan set a steaming cup of tea down in front of the captain, then rushed away before he could thank her. She had been especially attentive this evening, which was her way of expressing affection.

Picard wrapped his hands around the warm, round cup. “You were saying?”

“Hmm? I don’t remember.”

“Why don’t we …” he prompted.

“Oh, yes. Why don’t we call it a night. You’re obviously exhausted.”

He fought against the sudden urge to yawn, but lost. When his mouth had stopped its convulsive gaping, he said, “I suppose you’re right. I have quite a bit of sleep to catch up on.”

This admission of weariness seemed to sap away the last of his strength. He tried to sip his tea, but the weight of the cup was too much for him to lift more than a few inches off the table.

“Come on, Captain,” said Beverly, rising from her chair. “I’ll see you to your cabin.”

“According to ancient etiquette,” muttered Picard, “that’s supposed to be my line.”

Despite this half-hearted protest, he let the doctor take hold of his arm and guide him out of Ten-Forward.

By the time they had threaded their way through the ship’s corridors to the door of his cabin, Picard could barely lift his feet. Beverly propelled him through the open threshold with a gentle push, and he stumbled to the bedroom with his eyes already half-closed in anticipation of sleep.

He threw himself down on the bed without bothering to undress, but even though his body was spent, his mind clung tenaciously to consciousness.

For the first time since he had touched the Heart, he was alone in the darkened cabin.

No more dreams …

After its long fight to reach the wormhole, the seed was working its way toward another world. Someday it would land on alien soil, and a new Guardian would grow to maturity, crystal by crystal.

Picard’s hands clenched, then relaxed. The aching hunger to touch the Heart’s rough surface was fading away.

His sharply etched memories of other hands that had cupped its weight—of Kessec and Halaylah, of a dying Andorian healer and an exultant Romulan queen—all these were dimming as well. He could recall the shriveled face of the Collector in her chamber, but he had lost the image of her in life; and there had been a young Vulcan scrambling through a field of fallen soldiers, but Picard no longer remembered where the boy was going or why.

Ko N’ya. One bearer lingered long enough in his mind to whisper its name for the last time.

“It’s gone, T’Sara,” said Picard softly. “The blood has finally stopped flowing.”

Then he fell into a dreamless sleep.

Epilogue

Camenae snapped the towel into the air to shake off any dust, then plucked a tumbler out of the shipping carton and wiped away the packing foam.

When the glass sparkled once again, she tucked it into a low shelf beneath the bar.

Guinan had donated the glassware to the new venture; Anlew-Is had imported the counter from Orion in payment of his past debts; and the two tables and five chairs in the middle of the lounge were on temporary loan from the Starfleet office.

Miyakawa had cheerfully acknowledged that she wouldn’t have time to sit down for at least the next two years.

Camenae snapped the towel again, then picked up a long-stemmed wineglass. Although the commander was driving the base reconstruction effort with a manic zeal that probably would win her a promotion to commodore before the year was out, a few amenities were still lacking. Sonic dishwashers, for instance.

The doors to the room slid open, and a young man peered inside. He hesitated for a moment, taken aback by the sparsely furnished interior, then evidently took courage from the presence of other customers and crossed the threshold.

The Do or Die was not officially open for business, but a few people had already drifted inside this morning, content just to sit and talk. There was only one familiar face in the group of Rigelians who had settled at one table. Some of the old customers had been killed when Smelter’s Hold was destroyed; others, like the bartender, had left during the evacuation and never bothered to come back. Camenae could have used some extra help with setting up the new establishment, but unfortunately Miyakawa paid better wages.

The newcomer sidled up to the bar. At close quarters, he looked even younger than she had first thought. Beneath the furrows of his brow, his round face wore the anxious, earnest look of a child trying to act like an adult.

He tossed a credit chip onto the counter with an awkward imitation of nonchalance.

Camenae glanced down at the payment, then smiled. “My drinks aren’t that expensive.”

“I didn’t come here for a drink. I heard you could give me some information.” He shoved the credit chip closer to her.

“What kind of information do you want?” she asked.

“I’m trying to find a Vulcan named T’Sara.”

With a sigh, Camenae said, “I can’t take your money for that information. Everyone on this starbase has heard of T’Sara’s death.”

The boy’s violet skin flushed a deep indigo, and he bowed his head as if in sorrow.

“I’m sorry,” she said, with a frown of discomfort at his reaction. “I didn’t realize you knew her.”

“I didn’t.” Yet when he lifted his head, his eyes were filled with pain. “I read that she once visited my homeworld, and I had hoped to talk to her about her trip.”

Camenae expected the boy to take back the credit chip and leave, but he swallowed hard and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“So tell me about the Dream Gem instead. I need to know where it is.”

Camenae finished polishing the wineglass, then she slid the chip back across the counter. “You’re in luck. Someone else has already paid that bill, and she gave me permission to answer your question free of charge.”

His eyes brightened with anticipation.

“The Gem is gone,” said Camenae. “Gone beyond the reach of any being in this galaxy.”

He shook his head angrily, refusing to believe. She shrugged and picked up yet another glass to clean.

“You don’t understand—I must find it!” said the young man.

“And if you don’t?”

“I must! The Gem is a part of my heritage. It once belonged to my people, and I would give my life for the chance to get it back.”

“You’re too late to make that sacrifice.”

Camenae stopped in mid-motion. “Why does this mean so much to you?”

At first it seemed the boy would not answer, but at last he said, “T’Sara would have understood …

I’m the last of the Ikkabar and …” Some strong emotion choked off his next words.

“No, don’t stop now,” said Camenae softly. “Tell me more. Perhaps I can help.”

She set aside the glass, leaned her elbows on the bar counter, and began to listen.

THE END

The Devil’s Heart – Read Now and Download Mobi

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