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"I can see where you got your good looks," she said. "He was a rugged, handsome man. Sam? Who put the envelope on the table, and who was that who spoke to you? And where did he go? Sam, there was no one within shouting distance."

There was a slight grimace of pain on Sam's face.

"Sam?"

"I don't know the answer to any of those questions, Nydia. But I'll tell you this: when that voice spoke, my chest started burning. It's just now going away, but man, did it hurt for a few seconds."

"Your chest?"

"The skin on my chest. Right in the center." He looked around them: no one in sight. Sam unbuttoned his shirt, hearing Nydia's gasp as his T-shirt came into view. "Relax, I'm not going to strip." He tried a grin. "At least not here."

"That's not it, Sam," she said, her voice tiny. "Look at your T-shirt; the center of your chest."

He looked down: the fabric was burned brown. In the shape of a cross. The cross Sam wore. His father's cross.

Nydia reached out, pulling up his T-shirt. The cross had burned his skin, leaving a scar in the shape of a cross. Sam touched the red scar; it was no longer painful, even though he could see it was burned deeply.

Sam unfolded the pages and almost became physically ill. The handwriting was unmistakably his father's scrawl. Sam had seen it many times on old sermons.

"Sam? You're as white as a ghost!"

"I … think that's what just spoke to me. My father wrote this."

The young man wiped his suddenly blurry eyes and once more looked at the writing, reading slowly, Nydia silently reading with him.

Son—Writing is difficult for me, in my condition. Want to keep this as brief as possible, but yet, there are so many things I must say to you and the girl.

"How … ?" Nydia said, then shook her head, not believing any of this.

I have watched you, son—whenever possible—grow through the years. Tried to guide you—help you—as best I could. Nydia, too. The girl beside you, not the Nydia I … knew. Like that time you got drunk in your mother's car and passed out at the wheel. That was a close one, boy.

"I'm the only person in this world who knew about that," Sam said.

Nydia said, "In this world, yes." She looked at the young man, wondering why she said that.

Give the cross you wear around your neck to the girl. Do it, son, without delay. Time is of the essence.

Sam removed the cross from his neck and handed it to Nydia. "Put it on," he said. He could see she was, for some reason, softly crying.

No one will be able to remove that cross from her. No one. I cannot guarantee she will not be hurt, but … well, you must have faith.

Now then, a cruel blow for each of you, for I know your thoughts: Nydia is your half sister.

"Oh, my God!" Sam said.

When I knew her mother, Roma was not her name. Her name was Nydia. She is of and for the Devil. She is a witch. After the hooved one attempted to take over the town of Whitfield—and failed, then—during which Wade, Anita, Chester, Tony, Jane Ann, Miles, Doris, and myself killed hundreds of Coven members, I made a bargain with our God to save your mother and what few Christians remained. I won, in a sense. But so did the woman you know as Roma. I killed, or at least sent back to Hell, Black Wilder, the Devil's representative. Your half brother, son, Black, is named for Wilder. And like that spawn of Hell, he is a warlock.

When you leave this terminal, the both of you must go to a Catholic church; get as much holy water as you can. You will need it.

I must rest for a moment. Writing is not something one does where I reside.

Sam glanced at Nydia. Half sister? She met his eyes, read his thoughts. "I don't care." Sam shook his head in confusion and returned to the letter.

It would be wrong, son, to say the Devil is back, for that one never leaves the earth; so I'll simply say he has returned to Whitfield. There will soon be a great tragedy in Whitfield, and I must be there to help your mother, for her ordeal involves both of us … and the girl. There will be no survivors from Whitfield. None.

"Mother … ?" Sam whispered. And as if Balon had anticipated the question, the letter continued:

She has made her choice. Tony has gone over to the other side. He has done so willingly; indeed, a long time ago. I could not stop him, for his faith is weak, as is his flesh. And that is something you will have to deal with as well.

You have a mission, Sam, and 1 do not envy you your task, for it may destroy you … not necessarily physically, and I can say no more about that. But you are as surely set to this mission as I was, years ago. You will be tempted, and you will fall to some of those temptations, for you are a mortal, blessed, in a manner of speaking, but still a mortal.

A Coven is being established at Falcon House. It is a house of evil, and you must return there. Your job is there. You will not be able to contact anyone in Whitfield. Whitfield is dead; past saving. But your mother will speak to you—in some way—before she slips through the painful darkness to the other side and to peace and blue and light.

We will meet someday, son. I am certain of that and can tell you no more about my surety.

The feelings you and the girl share is something that you both must cope with. I cannot help you, and will not lecture you. But I will say this: the union that produced Nydia was not a holy union. If anything, it was blessed by the Dark One.

"Riddles," Sam said. "The letter is filled with riddles, and I don't know what they mean."

I love you deeply, Sam, and wish I could be of more help to you in your task. But I have said too much already.

Now … I must go. Place the picture of me in the envelope, for that is all of me I can give you that will remain tangible. Put the letter on the table and do not touch it again.

Love, Father

Sam placed the picture in the envelope, the letter on the table. Together, still in mild shock, not knowing what to believe, the young man and young woman watched the pages dissolve into nothing. Then they were alone.

Nydia put her head on Sam's shoulder and wept.

"I have done all I can do to help Sam," said the silent voice as it pushed out of the mist and into the sleeping brain of Jane Ann.

She sat up on the couch, rubbing her eyes. "When did you see Sam?"

"About a minute ago, in Montreal."

"Neat trick, since you're in front of me at this moment. I won't pursue how you managed that."

"That would be best. You will understand soon enough."

"A time warp?"

"There is no time in my world. A year is the blink of an eye. Drop it, Janey."

"All right." She stared hard at the misty face of the only man she had ever loved. "Tell me this: how did our son look?"

"Considering the circumstances, well … and confused, upset." The misty face smiled, then projected, "bewitched, bothered, and bewildered."

"Oh, Sam!"

"Now you see why He is constantly calling me on the carpet … so to speak. Our son is falling deeply in love."

Jane Ann smiled. "How wonderful."

"With his half sister."

"You were a rounder before you came to Whitfield, weren't you?"

"Yes, but … well, I'll explain at a later date."

"I'm not sure I want to hear about it."

"As you wish. But don't jump to conclusions."

She glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel. "Tony might be back for lunch any moment."

"Tony will never again set foot in this house, Jane Ann. Not for any decent purposes, that is."

"I don't understand."