William Johnstone - Devil's Kiss

"Must be early sleepers," he said, knowing they were not asleep—sensing it. He sensed something else, too: Evil.

The man's gaze swept all directions. Not one light shone. No birds sang. The wind sighed for a moment, then was still, as if God's breath were warning the minister with the .45 strapped around his waist.

Sam walked toward the lake, then stopped for another look. He had driven around the area, looking for Lucas's car, then gave up the search. These were Bad Lands, and Lucas had lived here for many years; he would know dozens of hiding places.

Sam touched the flashlight in his back pocket, then moved forward. At the edge of the water, he paused. Standing very still, Sam looked around, all senses working overtime. A fish jumped into the lake, hitting the water with a smacking sound. To his right, in the dark timber, something stepped on a branch, breaking it. A snarl followed.

Sam spun around, in a crouch, right hand on the butt of the .45. His heart picked up in tempo, thudding in his chest. Another growl, an answering growl to the first. This one came from Sam's left, in that part of the timber that gently curved around the small body of water. Whatever was in the timber—man or Beast—there were two of them, at least. The knowledge was not at all comforting to Sam.

Sam stood with his back to the lake, the body of water no more than five or six acres at most. The wind suddenly picked up, blowing from east to west, bringing with it a faint chant.

A chantl Out here? No one lived within miles of this place. Of course! Sam remembered the caravan he had seen; they worship at the Dig site. Again, the chanting drifted to him, faint, but unmistakable. He could not make out the words, but for some reason, they sounded like a warning. But for whom? Or what?

Abruptly as it had begun, the chanting ceased, leaving the night with an eerie silence.

More than that, Sam thought. Not just silence, but evil. I can feel it; sense it all around me, like a foul-smelling assassin draped in a dark cloak.

Sam looked toward the timber. He knew—and the knowledge was not easy to take—he would have to enter that stand of timber. It went against his training. A wise man does not fight the enemy on his own ground, unless you have the element of surprise with you, and he did not have that. They were waiting for him.

The wind shifted, bringing with it a horrible stench. A smell unlike anything Sam had ever smelled. His nose wrinkled in disgust.

Sam took a step forward, the light off the lake reflecting from the cross around his neck. The growling in the timber intensified, the—whatever they were—seemed to sense the power of the cross. And resent it.

Sam felt the things moving closer to the timber line. He could feel their anger, their frustration, their hatred. It was as if they knew, somehow, that Sam Balon had come to harm them.

From the timber came a horrible snarling, a growling, a snap of heavy jaws, followed by a puff of putrid air, assailing Sam's nostrils. For the first time in many years, Sam felt a tinge of fear in his belly.

He moved closer to the timber. "Lucas!" he called. "Are you in there?"

The things roared at him, a non-human howling of rage and hate.

Sam felt them watching him. He could dimly make out their shapes in the timber. Huge shapes; misshapen in all their bulk. He could smell the unGodly stench of them.

He heard a human moan. A cry of pain.

Lucas? It had to be.

Whoever it was suddenly screamed in pain. "Oh, my God, help me, help me!" It was Lucas. "Lord, my God, give me strength to—" His words cut off abruptly in a choking cry of pain.

Sam knew he could wait no longer. Lucas needed help. Now!

He ran toward the timber, ignoring the snarling and the growling. He raced toward another human being in desperate need, knowing he was running into the unknown. The smell became heavier, more powerful, almost unbearable. Branches whipped at Sam's face, the heavy cross bounced on his chest. A powerful roar stopped him. The smell was sickening. The Beast—and it had to be that—was very close to him.

"No, Sam!" Lucas shouted. "Run! Oh, my God-SAM, GET OUT!"

The voice was pain-filled, in terrible agony. Sam moved toward the sound, edging his way through the darkness of the timber, his flesh crawling with the uncertainty of what lay ahead of him. He didn't dare use his flashlight; the Beasts would be sure to spot him then.

The stench was making him sick.

Suddenly, something warned Sam; some inner sense for survival he had developed in combat told him to duck—shift direction, hit the ground! Or perhaps, he would later think, it was God warning him. Sam hit the ground, throwing himself to the right, rolling, coming up with his back to a huge tree, on his knees.

A huge clawed hand tore through the air, swiping. Powerful jaws, dripping saliva, snapped at nothing. The fangs, thick, yellow, four to five inches long, gleamed in the dimness of the forest gloom. The Beast, well over six feet tall, stood a few yards from Sam, roaring at him, its stinking breath fouling the air.

For a few heart-pounding seconds, Sam squatted with his back to the tree in total shock. Nothing he had ever seen or done or read could have prepared him for this. The Beast glared down at him, hate shining blood-red in its small evil eyes.

The Beast was huge, tall, perhaps two hundred and fifty to three hundred pounds, very wide across its trunk. It had massive jaws that slowly narrowed almost into a pinhead at the top. Its body was covered with thick coarse hair, matted with filth. And the face. God! the face. It was the face of all that was evil. It was insane human; cunning animal; crazed night prowler. It was a walking nightmare.

And Sam was in the middle of the waking incubus.

Sam touched the cross on his chest, grasping it, holding it up to the Beast. The grotesque, subhuman howled with fear, jerking its hairy arms up to shield its eyes from the Holy Cross. Its roaring rattled the leaves of the forest. The Beast's hate and anger finally overcame its fear, and it moved toward Sam, huge bare feet shuffling through the undergrowth.

Sam clawed the .45 from the holster, jacked back the hammer, and shot the creature twice in the chest, the heavy slugs slamming the creature back, blowing holes the size of quarters. It shook itself, screaming in pain, then charged. Sam leveled the automatic and squeezed the trigger twice, shooting the Beast in the face, the slugs going into its open mouth, clipping off a fang, then traveling up into its tiny brain, blowing out the back of its head. The Beast flipped off its feet and fell backward, slumping against a thick tree trunk. It quivered, its bowels relaxing, then was dead.

Sam's chest was heaving as he got to his feet, standing over the dead Beast. He was almost numb with shock. He had never seen anything like this.

Suddenly, he remembered there were two of them, at least. Surely the other Beast would come to avenge the death of its friend or mate. Sam ejected the half empty clip, put it in a pouch, and pushed in a full clip, jacking in round, leaving the weapon on full cock. He waited.

Some .. . thing was stumbling toward him, through the dark timber, its breathing harsh. Whatever it was, it moved closer.

Sam lifted the .45, steadying the butt with the palm of his left hand, finger on the trigger. Sweat ran into his eyes. His finger tightened, taking up slack on the trigger as the thing moved nearer. Sam almost screamed as the bushes parted and the creature stepped out into the small clearing.

Lucas Monroe.

Sam lowered the .45, easing the hammer down with his thumb. "Lucas! My Lord, Lucas—what happened to—" His words stuck in his throat as clouds moved past the moon, giving light to the scene on the ground. The Godly, the dead Godless, and the bloody old man.