William Johnstone - Devil's Kiss

"Yes."

The combat vet knew there was nothing else left to ask. The two men suddenly knew each other very well.

While Chester began pulling articles from the shelves, Sam walked through the store, selecting other items, stacking them on the counter, aware he was being watched from the sidewalk. Rope, boots, a hunting knife, a small axe, ammo pouches, canteens, tarps, web belts.

"Be sure to pick out enough clothing for all of us," Sam reminded his friend. He named those he felt he could trust. "You know their sizes?"

"I know," Chester replied quietly. "Sonny Moore is watching you."

"Let him crane his red neck. When I get tired of it, I'll chop it off."

The man is pure warrior, Chester thought. "What about Michelle? Is there no chance for her?"

"Let the devil have her!" Sam felt no remorse in saying it. "She's one of Them. I told you how she tried to mark me last night."

Chester shuddered. "How do we determine who we can trust?"

"I believe I've named them all. There might be one or two more, but don't count on it."

"Fourteen people, Sam? Fourteen!"

"Fifteen, Chester."

The store owner silently added them. "Who is the fifteenth, Sam?"

The minister looked at him over the growing mound of supplies. "God."

Sam was aware of being watched as he loaded his supplies in the back of his truck. On his last trip, Sam smiled at Chester. "Put this on my account, Ches. We'll settle up when—it's all over."

"It's on the house, Sam. Be careful. Sam? I pray you're wrong about this."

"Do you think I'm wrong?"

"No," Chester said softly. "No, I don't. I'll get my gear together."

Sam waved goodbye.

Michelle was up, sitting in the kitchen, a cup of coffee in front of her. She had bathed, washed her hair, perfumed herself. She smiled at him, but Sam knew the lip greeting was forced. If she was one of Them—and Sam had no doubts about it—living with a minister, a man of God, in a home filled with religious articles, that must be awful for a person who worships Satan.

For the first time since Korea, Sam knew the blood-boiling, mind-eating sensation of wanting to kill.

But not a human being, he thought. She is not a human being. Not any longer. None of Them. She is a non-person, more animal than human. Rabid in thought and act. She has no soul. She has given that to Satan.

But he that shall blaspheme against the Holy Ghost hath never forgiveness, but is in danger of eternal damnation.

But God was even more specific than His Son: Thou shalt have no other gods before me.

And that, Sam thought, is that!

He returned his wife's smile. Both of them living out an act. But for how long? Michelle's eyes were cool on him. Sam felt unclean—soiled under her gaze.

"I've been thinking, Sam. Perhaps we should try to work out our differences?"

Here it comes, Sam thought, bracing himself inwardly. Don't let her touch you, don't let her tempt you, don't let her kiss you. You've been a long time without a woman, Sam, and she is beautiful, and don't forget: she will have Satan working with her. Be careful.

Help me, Lord, he prayed.

"Yes, Michelle, I've been thinking about that, too." That, and other things.

"What—uh—do you think we should do?"

"Since I don't know the problem, I don't believe I can answer your question."

Her eyes narrowed in hate. She rose from the table. "Are vou hungry?"

"Not really."

"Is something the matter, Sam?"

He smiled at her, but it was more a grimace. He watched her eyes drift to the cross hanging about his neck, outside his shirt. Black rage filled her dark eyes, the power of the hate almost filling the kitchen.

"Is that a new cross, Sam? I don't believe I've seen it before. It's—much more ornate than your old one."

"Father Dubois gave it to me."

The muscles in her jaw bunched quickly, then relaxed. That was the only sign of alarm or tension.

You're quite an actress, Michelle, he thought.

She lifted her dark, brooding eyes to his. Her eyes were evil. "When did you see him?"

"This morning."

The words of Black Wilder came to her. He had told her she had to try to convert her husband— mark him as one of Them. Failing that, Sam would have to die, but it would be difficult to kill him.

She had questioned the devil's agent about that. With great patience, reminding her she was a longtime worshipper of the Master, and she should know these things, he explained that Sam had been chosen—by Him, and He would take great umbrage at one of His people being killed—at least this early in the game. There are rules, you must remember.

You must try to mark him, he told her.

But Michelle knew, speaking with Sam this afternoon, that he would never fall prey to her. He was too strong, too much a believer in his God.

And, though she did not like to admit it, she was afraid of Sam.

"That's interesting, Sam. What did you two discuss?"

"Church business, mostly." Not really a lie. "It was a most interesting chat, I assure you."

"How nice for you both. Well, if you're not hungry, I think perhaps I'll get ready to go."

Carry your butt, he thought bitterly. When, in the past six months, have you cared whether I was hungry or not. "Go?"

"Mrs. Carrison is in the hospital," she said, her eyes meeting his in the never-wavering gaze of the practiced liar. "In Rock Point. I'm riding over with Susan to visit her. Take her a plant for her room."

"How very considerate of you. Please give her my best." He hoped the sarcasm he felt had not slipped into his words. Then he decided he didn't care whether it had or not. "I didn't know she was ill." He decided to needle her a bit. "Do you want me to ride over with you, dear?" he smiled after his words.

Her eyes shot venom at him, but her Hps pulled back in a forced smile. "I don't believe so, Sam. But it's nice of you to ask. We're going to spend the night at Rock Point—with Susan's sister. I told you about it, you must have forgotten, Sam. I know you have a great deal on your mind," her smile broadened, "with church attendance falling so drastically." She could slip the needle just as well as her husband.

She should, she'd had hundreds of years of practice.

Touche, Sam's smile was grim. But you're a liar. You never told me a word about it. How quickly the lies come. "Well, perhaps I'd better stay here. I do have a lot of work to do on Sunday's message."

She picked up her overnight bag. Sam could smell its contents. "What is the topic for Sunday?"

"Devil worship," he lied, for he had no intention of speaking on that subject.

Michelle dropped her bag. "Darn! How clumsy of me." She bent to retrieve the bag and Sam felt an almost overwhelming urge to kick her in the behind. It was only with a great deal of effort, working hard at self-control that he did not plant his boot on her derriere.

When she turned to leave, Sam felt relief wash over him. He hoped she would not try to kiss him. She was disgusting to him. Loathsome. If she attempted to touch him, to kiss him, Sam knew he might kill her.

And the thought startled him.

He looked at the woman he had once loved so deeply.

She disgusted him!

Devil worship. Black masses. Coven.

Sam's thoughts suddenly wandered to Jane Ann. Until recently, he had always been able to cope with her feelings toward him. And, he reluctantly admitted, his feelings for her. But now . . .?

She wasn't the first to fall for a minister. That happens often, this transference of affection, as some call it. There are courses one must take in seminary—courses that supposedly teach a minister how to cope with such a situation. Lately, though, when in the company of Jane Ann, Sam had been unable to think of a single lecture.

He forced Jane Ann from his mind as he looked away from his wife. He did not see the look of black hatred she gave him, or the spittle that oozed from one corner of her mouth. He did not see the snarl that pulled back her lips, or her curving fingers suddenly raised, hooked talons, ready to strike.