William Johnstone - Devil's Kiss

"No," the editor whispered.

"Then just calm down. I want to see what these kids do after this car passes."

When the out-of-state car had gone, turning onto highway 72, out of town, the kids returned to the road, blocking it as before.

"Interesting," Sam observed. "It's as if they receive a signal. But I don't know how they receive it."

A burly young man, in his late teens, leaned against the truck, blocking any movement. Wade stuck his head out the window. "Roy! Get the hell out of the way!"

The young man looked at him, his face reflecting pure insolence. "Don't get all worked up, Thomas. You don't own the fuckin' road."

Sam's smile was sad and knowing, as was Chester's. Both men said nothing.

"I can't believe this," Wade said, his voice trembly. "I taught his Sunday School class for five years. I don't believe he said that to me." Then he became angry. "I ought to get out of this truck and kick his butt!"

"Let it slide, Wade," Sam said. "Besides, are you sure you can kick it?"

The editor grew even angrier. "Look, Sam, I'm forty-one years old. I—"

"Smoke a pipe and two packs of cigarettes a day," Sam cut him off. "And have for years." He watched the young people mill about in the road. "And you don't get enough exercise. Look at that kid—he's hard as a rock."

"You sound as though you might be afraid of him, Sam?" Wade spoke before he thought, and was instantly sorry he did.

Sam glanced at him. Wade realized, then, that he did not know his minister as well as he thought he did. There was no fear in Sam's eyes; just a calmness and a certainty that he could and would cope with any situation that might confront him.

"Sorry I said that, Sam."

"It's all right, Wade. You're under a strain. I understand. No, I'm not afraid of him—I'm not afraid of any living man. I've killed men with guns, knives, grenades—and my bare hands. I've forgotten more about fighting than most men could even comprehend, much less physically achieve; not that it's anything to brag about. But en if I were not a minister, it would do no good for me to manhandle that young man."

Realization filled Wade's eyes. He nodded. "It's a game, isn't it, Sam? Just a damned game! An evil game between Christianity and Satanism." Several of the young men began to rock the light truck back and forth. They were not attempting to over turn it, just playing a game with the men inside.

"You stood up to the devil," Wade said. "But you knew he wasn't going to kill you, didn't you? Didn't you? He can't kill you, can he, Sam?" The minister shook his head in agreement. "Yeah," Wade said, "that's what I thought. Now I get it. That would bring the wrath of God down on him, and he doesn't want that, does he?"

"The key word is not yet; he can't kill me." Sam's words were soft.

"But he got Glen! Why Glen and not you?"

"I can't answer that, Wade."

"Do you feel you've been—Chosen, Sam?"

The truck continued to rock.

The minister met Wade's gaze. "Dubois seems to think so."

"That's not what I asked, Sam."

"Yes, I do. I don't know why He picked me, but yes, I believe He did."

"ALL RIGHT—BREAK THIS UP!!" Jimmy's sharp voice cut a warning through the crowd. "You people get out of here—right now!"

Jimmy stuck his head inside the cab. "Things like this have been going on all over town. For the past two-three hours. But almost no one calls in a complaint."

"No one, Jimmy?" Chester asked. The young people had backed off the road, but were still congregated around the drive-in. The looks they gave the men were of hate. Dark hate.

"Only two people, Mr. Stokes. Mr. Word, and old lady Dornak. Some kids almost scared her to death. This same bunch of kids—some of 'em, anyway. Slipping around her house, howling like animals. When I confronted them and told them to stop, they told me to get fucked!" He glanced at 5am. "Excuse me, sir, but that's what they said. Doctor King came to the Dornak house to look after her. She was pretty shook up. The same bunch called Tony some pretty rough names. I'm telling you, this is scaring me!"

"Have you tried for outside help?" Wade asked.

"Yes, sir. I've had a call in to the Oberlin County Sheriffs office for more than two hours, now. But I can't get through."

"What were you going to tell them?" Sam asked.

Jimmy smiled, a sad, scared smile. "Nothing. I wanted to see if I could get through. I'm being followed wherever I go. By the men I'm supposed to lead as Chief. Miles told me a few minutes ago that he's being followed. They're not going to let us leave, and we can't call out. We don't have to wait for the roads to be closed, Sam—we're cut off now."

"You wish me to do something?" Nydia asked.

Wilder smiled. "Tonight, Nydia. Kill the old priest."

Her answering smile was full of the evil of a thousand years. "How?" she asked, knowing full well what his reply would be. They had played this game for centuries.

Wilder's eyes were savage. "Why, dear, have a stake driven through his heart, as Balon plans for us."

They chuckled together, the sound a dark blending of Satanic evilness, a cacophony of horror.

"And Balon?" she questioned. "When may I have him?"

Wilder turned his old but ever-young eyes upon her. "Do you really feel you can seduce this man of God?"

"When the time is right, yes. Have I ever failed?"

"Two centuries ago, I recall. In Plzen, I believe it was. That young student—"

"Bah! You tricked me that night. That was your doing, Black."

And the devil's agent roared with laughter. "Yes, well, be that as it may." His smile vanished. "Perhaps you can seduce this man, Nydia, but it will not be easy. It may have to be done with coercion. You must be patient."

"He is but a mortal man," the witch scoffed. "And I can do tricks with my body mortal women can only dream of doing."

Wilder shook his head. "Mortal, yes, Nydia, but—" he hesitated, his dark eyes seeking something in the distance. "Balon worries me. He isn't afraid. He has no fear."

She was not convinced. "I will have him, and then he will die like any mortal."

"Perhaps," Wilder said. "Perhaps. But at what price?"

"What's all that?" Wade asked, looking at the bottles and jars Sam had carried in. He had been to the rectory, picking up Father Dubois and what Dubois had waiting for him.

"Holy Water," the old priest said. "And you'll need every drop of it. Now I must return to the church."

"Wait!" Tony said. "What do we do, Father?"

"Fight. All of you. Follow Sam's direction. His way will be pointed out, with God's help." He turned to leave.

"Where are you going, Michael?" Sam asked. The priest looked at him, a very faint smile on his lips. "Home."

"I'll drive you," Sam said, not yet catching the subtle meaning of Dubois's words. "No." Dubois stopped him with a wave of his hand. "I want to walk. I want to smell the flowers, the grass, look at the trees. I want to feel the sun on my face."

Sam felt horror fill him as the full impact of Dubois's words hit him. The old priest was going to die—and he knew it.

Dubois cautioned Sam with a quick glance. A quick brushing of the eyes that said: Don't alarm the others. Rally them. It's all up to you.

"We'll see you tomorrow, Father, Tony said.

"Yes," the priest said. "Tomorrow."

Dubois walked back to the rectory, slowly, enjoying the sights and smells of nature in full bloom. He showered, changed into clean clothes, then sat down in his favorite chair in the small living room, reading his Bible. Each time the clock would chime the hour and half hour, he would look up.

He waited.

Dubois read his Bible, savoring each familiar word, occasionally nodding his head in agreement, sometimes saying aloud, "Yes, yes."