The Devil's Touch Read online

  "The impetuousness of youth," the Princess said with a smile.

  "I'm older than you," Janet reminded the young woman.

  "In the way humans measure time, yes," the Princess acknowledged. "But in my veins race a thousand years of service to our Prince."

  "You must not question the Princess," Bert Sakall admonished his daughter.

  The Princess held up one hand, the fingers long and delicate, shaped like a pianist's fingers. "She has the right, servant. She performed well at Falcon House." Her pale gray eyes touched the eyes of Janet. "You have the complete trust of Sam and Nydia?"

  "Totally, Princess."

  "I see." The Princess smiled. "You have a plan, I am sure."

  "I want Sam Balon," the young girl said simply.

  The Princess laughed, exposing perfectly shaped teeth. "You are worse than my mother." She shrugged. "Or so I have been informed about her. My earth father is a handsome man, no doubt about that. But tell me, do you keep your brains between your legs?"

  "Of course not. But I have been chaste now for more than two years, at my Master's orders. I may be only a girl, but I have a woman's needs. Think about it, Princess. What man, young or old, does not desire a young girl? Young girls are the image of innocence, their flesh not yet tainted by the lusts of full womanhood." She laughed. "Or so men think. Should I succeed, Sam Balon would be guilt-ridden, and easy to control."

  The Princess of Darkness nodded her head and smiled her approval. "Continue," she urged.

  "And there is Jon Le Moyne for Nydia," Janet said. "Divide and conquer."

  Janet's mother stirred at the mention of Jon Le Moyne. Sylvia Sakall, a woman in her late thirties, and like her husband, a devout follower of the Prince of Darkness, had dreams of the young man named Jon. She had heard of him, as had most women in the small community of Logandale. But the story went that the young high school boy was to follow in the footsteps of his uncle, Father Daniel Le Moyne. But the Dark One was soon to change all that, so the coven had been told. A female had been chosen for the young virgin boy with, so the rumors went, an instrument of love that would be the envy of male porn stars.

  The Princess picked up on the thoughts from Janet's mother. "You are not to interfere, servant," she told the woman. "The Master has plans for young Le Moyne. Do you understand all that?"

  Sylvia Sakall bowed her head. "I understand, Princess."

  "Yes," the Princess said. "That would be a coup. Nydia and Jon Le Moyne. Yes. And that might be the way to eliminate the priest, as well. And Sam, if you should succeed, would be so guilt-ridden, he could be controlled. Very well, I shall take it up with the Master. Your plan has merit, Janet. Carry it through if the opportunity presents itself, but do not endanger yourself or the coven or me. Is that clear?"

  "Yes, Princess."

  The lights in the room flickered, faded into darkness, and when they popped back on, the young woman was gone.

  * * *

  "Please forgive me," the young man prayed in the darkness of his bedroom. "But I am human, with human needs and wants. I try, Lord, I really do. But it's so difficult."

  Jon Le Moyne struggled to fight back the erotic images playing sexual scenes in his young fertile mind. His thoughts, as always, were about the dark-haired wife of Sam Balon, Nydia. His mind replayed the scenes, each time adding new twists and turns … and positions.

  Jon's hand crept over his belly and gripped his growing heavy erection. He struggled to keep from masturbating. He tried prayer. It didn't work. It was as if his prayers were going unheard. He did not understand what was happening to him; why was this happening? Up until only a few months ago, his thoughts had been almost pure in content.

  It was then Jon began experiencing dreams of a highly erotic nature. Then the high school junior had seen the woman in his dreams, and she had haunted his thoughts ever since. It was, Jon thought, almost as if he were possessed.

  He gripped his erection harder and began stroking himself.

  Desiree Lemieux looked out over the dark grounds of Fox Estate. She smiled at some inner thought. Sam Balon entered her mind and she felt the heat build within her virgin body.

  She turned at the sound of footsteps. She relaxed. It was only the groundskeeper, Jimmy Perkins.

  "Yes, Perkins?"

  "Forgive, mistress," the man said, his eyes dull as they swept over the young woman's lushness. "You sent for me?"

  "My mother and father would be very disappointed with the condition of these grounds, Perkins. This afternoon I saw a tangle of brush and undergrowth on the east side of the property. Why has that been permitted to grow?"

  Fuck your mother and father, Perkins thought, his dull eyes revealing none of the evil within the man. And fuck the horse they rode in on, too. I know all about your mother and father; know exactly who they are. "It is an unsafe place, mistress. That is the eastern border of the estate. It meets the estate of Mr. Norman Giddon."

  "I know all that," Desiree said irritably. "Why should it be unsafe for me?"

  "Hollow places in the ground, mistress. With only a thin covering of earth over them. Caves in there that run to the river over there." He pointed with a finger. "It is not safe. That is why the underbrush and thickets are allowed to grow; to discourage intruders."

  "All right, Perkins. That will be all."

  "Yes, mistress." He shuffled away. He wore an evil smile on his thick wet lips. Mademoiselle Lemieux may be the mistress of Fox Estate, and she might be in favor in the eyes of important people, but Jimmy knew who she was. And he knew she could not really hurt him. He had been around for too long. He had been privy to much information since joining the ranks of the undead more than a quarter of a century back, in Whitfield. He had adored the Devil's agent, Black Wilder, and thought the true Nydia a goddess. This young woman was supposed to be so important in the scheme of things, but she did not impress Jimmy, Not at all.

  TWO

  Father Daniel Le Moyne stepped from his small living quarters and looked toward the lights of the small college town. The priest had felt an ancient stirring rise from deep within him. He knew what it was. He had experienced it before. And it scared him. He did not know if he could cope with this again. He did not know if he had the strength.

  He knew all too well the hand of evil.

  He looked at his watch. The LCD flashed eight-ten. He shook his head and walked back toward his quarters. He stopped as the wind whispered around him. The wind rustled the dry leaves on the ground and the starkly naked branches on some of the trees. The wind should have been cool, for this was late October. But the breeze that touched him was hot. And it contained an odor that insulted the priest's nostrils.

  Evil, he concluded.

  Father Le Moyne shuddered, a cold shaking of both body and spirit.

  But not my faith, he thought, and then wondered why he would think that. For nothing had occurred to make him question his faith.

  Not lately, the priest amended that thought.

  He turned his mind to his nephew, Jon. The boy was battling some inner conflicts, and so far, the priest had not been able to break through to the young man.

  Fear touched the priest and he spun around as the sound of heavy, labored breathing reached him. The sound was coming from the side of the church.

  The priest walked toward the source of the sound— whatever it, or they, might be. An odor, foul and ugly, reached his nostrils. He wrinkled his nose against the smell.

  "Help me," the voice whispered. The words were very slurred. "Help me."

  "Who is there?" Father Le Moyne called.

  "Help me. For the love of God—help me." Le Moyne could scarcely make out the words. The voice spoke as if it possessed only half a tongue.

  The priest walked toward the whispering. His heart was a dull heavy thudding in his chest. And he knew fear. Knew it on a far more intimate basis than ever before. And he could not understand the fear.

  The wind picked up, blowing hotly in the priest's face.
r />   The calling, pleading slurred words continued to reach Le Moyne.

  Father Le Moyne stepped into the murky shadows.

  A bloody hand reached for him as a scream touched his ears.

  Chief of Police Monty Draper drove the streets of the small college town. He could not understand the feelings of … doom, was the word that came to him, that had slipped into his mind just after supper. His face must have registered his thoughts, for his wife had asked him what was wrong.

  "Oh, nothing," he lied to her, and that was something he did not like to do. "I just remembered some paperwork 1 have to do at the station."

  "Will you be late?"

  "I—I don't know, Viv. Don't wait up for me."

  She had smiled at him. "All right, Monty. Just be careful in dealing with the desperadoes."

  It was a standing joke between them. Logandale had the lowest crime rate in the entire state. The college was known as a haven for eggheads, not raucous and reveling frat boys. The town itself was just under four thousand population, with a full-time police force of only four men and one woman. The sheriffs department had a substation in Logandale, with one deputy living in town.

  Monty had spent ten years on the NYPD, going on disability retirement at the age of thirty-two after taking a shotgun blast in his legs. He walked with a slight limp that became more pronounced as he grew tired. Unable to put police work out of his mind, and not trained for any other type of work, Monty had answered an ad in a police magazine, driven up to Logandale for an interview, and was hired on the spot. That was three years ago. There had been no major crime in the small town during that time. A few break-ins, some petty theft, a fist fight or two on the weekends. Several domestic situations involving husbands beating the shit out of wives, and one domestic situation of a wife beating the shit out of her husband. No rapes, no armed robberies, no shootings, no knivings, no embezzlements—that came to the attention of the police force—no nothing.

  It was boring. But the job paid surprisingly well. But a Boy Scout troop could have handled the job. Up to this point. All that was about to change.

  Monty gripped the steering wheel and sighed heavily, trying to shake off the feelings of impending doom. Monty was of average height, average weight, average build; everything about Monty Draper was average, which was the reason he had spent nearly all his time doing undercover and stake-out work for the NYPD. One watch commander had commented that Monty Draper could get lost in a crowd of two.

  Logandale, set off the beaten path, with no major highways or interstates running near it, was, putting it simply, a nice place to live. The town was surrounded by dairies, farms, and a sometimes colony of kooky writers and nutsy artists just a few miles out of town. When the colony was in residence—during the summer months—the townspeople viewed them with scarcely concealed amusement. But the writers and artists never caused anyone any trouble.

  The man who owned the land where the colony was located was the Writer-In-Residence at Nelson College, Noah Crisp. Noah had inherited an obscene amount of money from his mother and father; had published many books, but had never had a best-seller. As a matter of fact, since most of his books were so off-the-wall, so to speak, Noah paid for their publication. But since he was the nearest thing Logandale had to a celebrity, he became sort of an instructor at the college. The board felt that Noah's babblings really weren't harmful, since no one in control of their faculties would pay any attention to them anyway. His classes were usually titled under something like: The Transcendental Aspects of Creating Salable Fiction. Or, The Haruspextic Pitfalls of Writing.

  Classes any serious student of writing should take. Surely.

  Noah was fifty, a bit on the pudgy side, and wore a beret, of the type featured in the Village back in the early and mid-fifties, and usually wore a painter's smock over jeans and cowboy boots. To say Noah was a bit eccentric would be putting it kindly. Many townspeople just called him a fucking nut and let it go at that.

  As Monty drove the streets of the quiet little town, he recalled the visit by Noah, just a few weeks past. The man had not been his usual flaky self, not speaking in his usual pompous and/or condescending manner.

  Monty had waved the small man to a seat.

  Seated, Noah blurted, "Chief, are you a religious man?"

  The question had caught Monty off balance. He had not expected that. Monty shook his head. "Not really. I was raised in the Catholic church, but I broke away from it years ago. While I was still in high school."

  Noah nodded his head in understanding. "I, too, was raised in the church. But I haven't attended in years. Personal reasons. Chief, something very—strange is occurring in this town. I use that adverb in lieu of bizarre."

  Monty elected not to tell Noah that strange was an adjective, not an adverb. He thought.

  Monty waited.

  "My dog disappeared, Chief."

  Monty looked at the man.

  "But I found him—yesterday."

  "I'm … glad, Noah. Do you consider your dog's disappearance bizarre?"

  "What! Oh, no. Of course not. But I do consider it quite bizarre when the animal was tortured to death. Wouldn't you?"

  "You want to go into more detail?"

  Noah laid half a dozen Polaroid prints on the chiefs desk. Monty looked at them and felt like vomiting. The little dog had been hideously tortured, then patches of the animal had been skinned. Strange markings were cut into the skin. Alive, the thought came to Monty. The little animal was alive while this … depravity was done. Monty lifted his eyes from the pictures of pain.

  "Where did you find the animal, Noah?"

  "About a mile from my home. Down a dirt road."

  "What prompted you to look there?"

  "Because I had looked everywhere else. Really. Victor, that's my dog's name—was his name, had a habit of running off quite often. But I always knew where to look for him. But this time, no Victor. So I began a systematic search for him. This spot," he said pointing to the prints, "was the last area in the quantum. I was—I became quite ill when I found him."

  "That's understandable." Monty looked at the prints. Something was disturbingly familiar about the scene. But he couldn't pin it down.

  "You look perplexed, Chief," Noah said.

  Monty had mumbled something; he couldn't recall what. Now, driving the quiet streets of Logandale, it came to him: his sergeant handing out prints of a dead man found in an old condemned building. "We got us a bunch of Satan nuts," the sergeant said. "Coroner's office says the old guy was alive when this was done to him. Look at it real hard, boys and girls, and keep your heads up on this one."

  That had been Monty's first year on the department. The pictures had made him violently ill.

  And the same type of skinning had been done to Noah's dog; the same strange markings found on both the dog and the old man.

  They never did find out who tortured and killed the old guy, but department shrinks said it definitely was the work of Satan worshippers.

  Devil worshippers … here in Logandale? Monty just could not accept that. College kids up to something.

  He rolled down the window to catch some air.

  The air was hot and smelled bad.

  "What the hell?" Monty muttered. It had been cool for the past few weeks; now hot air that smelled bad. Last week in October and getting summertime weather that smelled worse than the Hudson. Didn't make sense.

  That's when Monty heard the shouting.

  The hand that touched Father Le Moyne's face was sticky with blood. When Le Moyne recovered sufficiently from his initial fright to run inside his quarters and grab a flashlight, he could see why the man was bloody.

  The man was naked, his body covered with strange-looking cuts and slashings and markings. The man was bloody from his mouth to his toenails. Or where his toenails were supposed to be. Father Le Moyne tried to avert his eyes from the man's groin. The man had been castrated. Among other hideous acts. Covering the tortured body with his jacket, F
ather Le Moyne told him, "Lie still. I'll get help."

  He ran back inside and jerked up the phone. The phone was dead. But it had been all right an hour before. "Damn!" the priest said. He ran out the side door of his quarters and toward the street.

  The church was located on the edge of town, the nearest neighbor a full block away. The gas station across the street was closed. Le Moyne saw the lights of an approaching vehicle. He ran toward the street, waving his arms and shouting.

  Monty slammed on his brakes and jumped out of the car. "Steady now, Father. What's the matter?"

  Pulling the chief toward the church, the priest explained as best he could. Monty could not believe what the priest was saying. In New York, yeah, it would not even make the pages of the worst rag in town. It seemed to the rest of the nation—Monty had been told, many times—the people living and working in the Big Apple seemed more concerned about the rights of street slime than in the rights of the citizen. That wasn't true. But just try explaining that to a tourist with a busted head, minus his watch, ring, and wallet. And the punks that mugged him back out on the streets before the tourist is out of the emergency room.

  Maybe there was some truth in it, Monty finally admitted privately.

  The priest knew his story sounded far-fetched. He held out his hands to the cop. Monty looked at the dark blood and quickened his step.

  "There!" Le Moyne pointed to the side of the church.

  The ground was sticky with blood. The jacket the priest had used to cover the man was there, blood soaked. But the man was gone.

  The Beasts feasted that evening. They tore the intestines from the tortured man's belly and ate them while steam rose from the man's open stomach. The Beasts ripped flesh from bone and devoured the sweet meat. They cracked open bone and sucked the marrow from it. One Beast contented herself with eating the flesh from the man's head, peeling the head like an orange, popping the eyeballs into her mouth like grapes. Then she ate the brain.

  The few bones that were left were gathered and taken deep underground, through a hole behind the Catholic church. The hole had at one time been a well. It now connected with an elaborate labyrinth of underground tunnels. The tunnels crisscrossed under the entire town of Logandale, with exits under all church basements, the city hall, the police station, the sheriffs department substation, the public schools, many homes, and into the town's sewage system.