The Devil's Heart

'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?'