'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
'If you take a hand, it is guaranteed. And then there is this: we can produce
'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.'
