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  "Aye, sir," Abby chimed in, "there is always a cold spot in the middle between us, and it discomforts us both."

  "What a pity," the Marquis said sympathetically. "You poor things!" He put one arm around Mary's waist and the other around Abigail's. "Show me where this bed is and I'll warm the center for you."

  "You are kind, my lord," Abby smiled.

  "And generous, I hope," Mary said sweetly.

  "Ah, yes, my dear girls," he said as they began to walk down the street, "my generosity is renowned on two continents. In England too I have had the privilege of warming ladies' beds, and paid for the honor." He looked at Mary with condescending amusement. "And what does a gentleman pay for this honor in Boston?"

  Mary and Abigail exchanged quick glances. "Three shillings?" Mary suggested.

  "Each?" Abigail added hopefully.

  "A modest fee for so great an honor," the Marquis laughed. The girls laughed as well and continued their coquettish conversation all the way to the old abandoned blacksmith shop which they had made their home. When the young Englishman saw the ramshackle structure, he frowned slightly. "And is this where you keep your bed, my dear girls? It has a very unpleasant appearance."

  "We are but two poor girls without money," Mary said with mock sorrow, "and can afford no better . . ."

  "But it is pleasant within," Abigail added quickly, fearing that he might change his mind at the last moment. She took his hand and placed it upon her belly. "And so are we, my lord."

  The Marquis smiled at her and laughed slightly. "Indeed, I'm sure you are, my dears. Come, let us see what awaits, eh, within." The girls giggled and pulled him forward, one on each arm. Abby lifted the outer latch of the abandoned shop, and they entered eagerly.

  Mary Warren turned up the oil lamp which had been burning dimly upon the oak table which stood in the midst of the room, and the flame brightly illuminated the interior of the shop. She immediately turned down the lamp so that the light was less glaring and the old shop made more pleasing to the eye. But the flame still burned brightly enough for the Marquis to be able to view his surroundings with distaste, brightly enough for Mary and Abigail to see the distaste expressed clearly upon his face. "Pardon our poverty, my lord," Abigail hastened to say. "We make do as best we can, two poor girls shifting for ourselves in this cruel city."

  "And yet our sheets are clean," Mary added, "and our mattress stuffed full with fresh straw."

  "Fresh Straw," he said with amusement. "How delightful! Feathers are just so uncomfortable!"

  "Please, my lord, do not laugh at us," Mary said mournfully. "We are—"

  "Yes, yes, I know," he said, not unkindly. "Just two poor girls getting on as best you can." They smiled up at him, and he allowed his gaze to drift lazily over the room. The unfinished wood which was the structure's major component element was dull and unreflective, and it lent an air of gloom to the starkness of the interior. A large mattress lay upon the floor in one corner, and a small table upon which stood a wooden cross rested against the far wall. But for the larger table upon which the oil lamp burned, there were no other furnishings. An old wooden trunk, which could hardly be called a piece of furniture, rested upon the floor next to the entrance. "How charming," the Marquis said blandly.

  " 'Twas not the charms of the house you've come to explore, my lord," Abigail said invitingly.

  "Aye, good sir," Mary added. "Ignore the room." She tossed her shawl onto the floor and allowed her brown cloak to drop down about her feet. She deftly unbuttoned the simple green dress she wore and pulled it down, allowing it to fall upon the discarded cloak. She smiled sweetly at the Marquis. She had been naked beneath her dress.

  The young Englishman returned her smile. "No wonder you were so cold, my dear Mary! Do you make it a custom to go about so unprotected?"

  "Unprotected, but always prepared," she said softly. Mary stepped over the pile of clothes and walked over to the Marquis. She stood before him and snaked her arms up around his neck, pulling his mouth down to hers as she stood on tiptoe to reach up to him. He felt a familiar and delightful tingling in his organ as he allowed his hands to move over her muscular buttocks, her flat belly, her small, firm breasts.

  Mary pushed him away gently and walked over to the mattress. She sat down upon it with a grace which surprised the young Englishman, and then removed her shoes and stockings. The Marquis turned to Abigail and asked, "And your charms, dear Abby? May I not explore them as well?"

  "Indeed, my lord, indeed you may," she smiled. She removed her cloak and placed it upon the old wooden trunk. She wore a white blouse tucked into a gray skirt, and she unbuttoned and removed the skirt first. She then pulled the blouse over her head, revealing to the delighted Marquis her large breasts which seemed to spill over the half-corset which snugly embraced her waist. Her stockings came up to mid-thigh and were held up by two tightly tied red ribbons. She also wore no other undergarments. "And are my charms adequate for my lord's pleasure?" she asked.

  "Adequate for more than one man, my dear," he laughed as he reached out and took one large breast in each hand. Abigail clasped her hands behind her head as he caressed her bosom, and she purred softly and swayed her hips back and forth.

  The Marquis reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew forth a few coins. He tossed them onto the table and then said, "Come, my dears, attend me."

  Mary rose from the mattress and joined Abigail in the process of removing the young Englishman's clothing. None of them spoke as the layers of silk and wool were removed, but the girls giggled slightly when his erect penis throbbed out as his trousers were pulled down. "In truth, my lord," Abby said," 'tis a fortunate thing that there are two of us!"

  "Are all men from the old country such stallions?" Mary asked.

  The Marquis pulled Mary toward him and kissed her roughly on the mouth. He did not notice when Abigail slid her hand beneath the mattress and grasped the hilt of the dagger.

  He pushed Mary gently away and then turned to Abigail. “A sweet kiss from you, now.”

  Abigail Williams slid her hand beneath the mattress and grasped the hilt of the dagger.

  "Oh, yes!” Abigail smiled at him and then deftly thrust the blade into his throat. He returned the smile for but a moment, and then confusion and panic mingled on his face as the pain registered and the hot purple blood began to gush forth from his severed artery. The Marquis attempted with pathetic futility to repress the sanguine flood with his trembling hands. The two women rose to their feet and looked down at him with amusement as his quivering body continued to eject its life's blood in a pulsing stream.

  Abigail went to the table and took two pewter cups from its surface. She handed one to Mary Warren, who proceeded to spit the Marquis's semen into it. Abigail knelt down and caught some of the still-spurting blood in the other cup. They then turned their backs on the dying man, whose tremors grew less and less violent with every passing moment, whose bloody fountain seemed to grow weaker and weaker, who was soon lying still upon the blood-soaked mattress, his eyes staring madly, lifelessly at the ceiling.

  Abigail and Mary knelt before the smaller of the two tables, the one upon which stood a simple wooden cross. Abigail pulled the cross out of the notch into which the base of the cross had been secured and turned it upside down. She then pushed the inverted cross back into the notch so that the small crossbeam rested a few inches above the table. Mary took the cup with the blood in it and poured the contents into the other cup. The blood and semen mingled as Mary slowly and carefully moved the cup around in a circular motion. She placed the cup upon the small table before the inverted cross and then nodded to Abigail.

  Abigail and Mary knelt in silence for a few moments, and then Abigail chanted, "Ave Satanas!"

  "Ave Satanas!" Mary responded.

  "Diabolus tecum."

  "Et cum spiritu tuo."

  They began to chant in unison. "Malo a nos libera sed tentationem in inducas nos ne et nostris debitoribus dimittimus nos et sicut nostra deb
ita nobis dimitte et hodie nobis da quotidianum nostrum panem terra in et caelo in sicut tua voluntas fiat tuum regnum adveniat tuum nomen sanctificetur caelis in es qui noster pater."

  Having spoken the Lord's Prayer backward as the ritual demanded, Abigail elevated the cup and said, "Hail, Satan, father of lies, fountainhead of evil, master of this world. We come before you in supplication, we come before you in worship and in awe."

  Abigail sipped from the cup, her face a frozen mask of reverence. If she was at all repelled by the mixture, it did not show in her expression. She handed the cup to Mary.

  Mary elevated the cup in turn. "Hail, Satan, ruler of hell, giver of power, lord of the flesh. We come before you in supplication, we come before you in worship and in awe." Mary sipped from the cup and then placed it upon the table.

  The two women clasped their hands before them and inclined their heads, their eyes closing as their lips began to move in silent prayer. After a few moments, Abigail Williams looked up at the inverted cross and chanted, "All that I am, I offer to you."

  Mary responded to the chant. "All that I am, I offer to you."

  "Strike down mine enemies and confound their desires."

  "All that I am, I offer to you."

  "Reduce them to ashes and torment their flesh."

  "All that I am, I offer to you."

  "Burn them with sulfur and rend them with knives."

  "All that I am, I offer to you."

  "Grant thou my boon, thou master of hell."

  "Ave Satanas, gratia vacuus."

  "Inflame thou my lusts, thou lord of the flies."

  "Ave Satanas, gratia vacuus."

  "Praise to thee, Lucifer! Praise to thee, Lucifer!"

  "Ave Satanas, gratia vacuus."

  "All hail Beelzebub, Mephistopheles hail!"

  "Ave Satanas, gratia vacuus."

  "Ave Satanas!"

  "Ave Satanas!"

  They fell silent once again, their worship ceremony at an end. After a few moments Abigail rose to her feet and began to dress, and Mary watched her, an expression mingling love and pity upon her face. Then she too arose and proceeded to clothe herself. Mary glanced at the corpse which lay upon the blood-soaked mattress. "Where shall we lay him? Shall we burn him?"

  Abigail shook her head. "No. No need. We'll bundle him in a blanket and leave him near the potter's field. Let the magistrates attend to him."

  Mary reached down to fasten the buckles of her shoes. "What did you ask for, Abby?"

  "Hmmm?" Abigail was tucking her blouse into her skirt. "Did you ask for the same thing?"

  Abigail Williams sighed. "Aye. Always the same thing."

  Mary shook her head sadly. "Abby—" she began.

  "I know, Mary Warren!" Abigail snapped." 'Tis purposeless to repeat yourself."

  "But he's dead, Abby! He's dead!"

  "Aye, and who is master of the dead, and who can grant my prayer?"

  Mary shook her head again. "Abby, 'tis foolishness."

  Abigail spun angrily on her. "And are your prayers so wise and learned? Who are you to criticize my prayers!" Her anger was beginning to mingle with sorrow, and both were clearly visible on her face.

  Mary walked over to her and took her hands gently in hers. "You know I love you more than a sister, Abby. You know that. I meant no unkindness."

  Abigail sniffed back a tear and tried to smile, though her anger was far from quieted. "I know, Mary."

  "I just don't wish to see you keep alive a flame which does naught but burn you. He's dead, Abby. John Proctor is dead. If his soul is in God's hands, God will not release him to you. If he is in Hell, will the Master release him to you? Has the Master ever released a soul firmly in his keeping?"

  Abigail shrugged defensively. "I know not, and neither do you."

  "You know as well as I, Abby. The prayer is futile. Why do you continue to ask?"

  "Because I love him, Mary! I love him more than anything else in the world!"

  "You loved him, Abby, you loved him! He's been dead for over six years. The hangings at Salem were over six years ago!"

  "Six years or sixty, it makes no difference. I want my love back; I want John." Abigail gazed at the inverted cross. "And some day, somehow, the Dark Lord will give him to me."

  The images of the two women seemed to freeze.

  The stage director in the control booth waited for the audience to applaud. They did not.

  The television screen went black. The house lights rose in the studio.

  Turning to the studio audience, Percy Campbell said, "We've just been watching part of the soon-to-be-released film, Satanists of Salem, starring Laura MacDonald and Patricia Nelson, produced by one of today's guests, Mr. Simon Proctor. We'll be talking to Simon and our other guests after these messages."

  ALL HALLOWS' EVE

  For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and shall lose his own soul?

  -MATTHEW 16:26

  Chapter One

  October 29, continued

  Percy Campbell attempted to look serious as he gazed out over the packed studio, trying not visibly to revel in the popularity and success which his daily televised sensationalism continued to yield. The issue of witchcraft and devil worship in popular culture was a serious one, and it would be unseemly for him to appear as gleeful as he felt. He enjoyed pretending that he was a journalist and that his talk show had something to do with an exploration of contemporary issues, and so he had adopted a grim and rather disturbed expression as he waited for the director's signal.

  When the director indicated to him that the taping had stopped, Campbell rose from the plush seat he was occupying behind the Formica desk on the right side of the stage and walked forward toward the audience. "Needless to say, we will not be broadcasting the entire film clip as you just saw it." A wave of nervous laughter rippled through the studio. "I figured that since we're going to be discussing some pretty serious issues on today's show, I owed it to you to make sure you knew exactly what we were talking about."

  Campbell's face maintained its very concerned expression. "I apologize if any of you were offended by what you just saw. Rest assured, we'll edit out most of the sex and optically censor the rest of it. I do have a contract to live up to, after all." A brief smile and more nervous laughter. "I'm sure you know that I'd find myself unemployed and unemployable if we didn't clean up that film clip a good deal before this show airs on Thursday."

  Campbell walked down the stage steps and stood silent for a moment. The boom mike did not follow him, for his words were not for the home audience. "I know that many of you are a little disgusted by what you just saw, but I warned you, didn't I?" A few more laughs joined mutters of agreement. "Okay, if the ushers would ask the folks out in the lobby to come back in?" He grinned at the audience. "I had to give you fair warning and a chance to leave during the film clip, or else I would have been lynched by now." A few more laughs.

  Campbell could tell that the audience had been neither amused nor entertained by what they had just seen. Rather, they had watched it with the morbid fascination one exhibits upon seeing a serious traffic accident.

  People began to enter the studio and soft bits of conversation reached the stage from the audience section. Campbell heard the words "revolting" and "disgusting," and he grinned. Can't say I haven't gotten the audience involved, he thought to himself. As the last of the people who had elected not to view the film clip found their seats, Campbell said, "Okay? Everybody ready?"

  He resumed his place behind the desk on the stage and smiled at the audience. "One of the many advantages of taping shows in advance is that we can take fifteen minutes off during a three-minute commercial slot." A few desultory laughs. The stage director moved into Campbell's view and held out four fingers, then three, then two, then one, then pointed at the stage as the green lights in the studio turned to red.

  "Welcome back to the Percy Campbell Show," he said into the camera. "Let me welcome my guests. . . ." He nodded to
each of the people seated on the stage in turn. "Mrs. Barbara Wilkinson of the Concerned Parents' Alliance. . . ."

  Mrs. Wilkinson smiled slightly and nodded a greeting in the direction of the camera, her rather plump face a bit shiny under the glare of the studio lights. Her hair was pulled back and tied into a rather severe bun, the streaks of gray standing out starkly against the fading, lackluster brown. The simple blue and white print dress she wore dropped its hem just below her knees, which were pressed together as if held in place by cement. She radiated propriety, primness, austerity, and an unforgiving, uncompromising mediocrity.

  "Father Joseph Scotto, director of the Youth Services Division of the Archdiocese of New York. ..."

  The priest shot a curt nod at the camera, an almost impatient gesture of acknowledgment. He wore the traditional Roman collar and jet black suit, which made his bushy gray eyebrows and massively curled white hair all the more distinct by contrast. His thin lips were straight and hard amid the lines of his aged, craggy face, and seemed to threaten a scowl at any moment.

  "Professor Ludwig Eisenmann of the anthropology and history departments of New York University. . . ."

  The middle-aged Austrian grinned boyishly and said "Hello!" in a cheerful and eager manner. The small bow tie with which he fiddled nervously accentuated the round and protuberant belly which obscured the buckle of his belt. His round, florid face and abundant brown hair combined with his girth to present an image of robust if corpulent energy.

  "Mr. Simon Proctor, well-known rock singer, self-proclaimed warlock and Satanist, and the producer of the film we just saw.

  Simon Proctor turned his steely eyes slowly toward the camera. He neither smiled, nodded, nor spoke. His jet black hair cascaded in long, luxuriant waves down about his neck and shoulders, forming a continuous, unbroken image of darkness as it merged with his black sports coat, his black turtlenecked sweater, and his black trousers which flared slightly outward at the tops of his black boots. Only the inverted silver crosses which dangled from his left ear and from the silver chain about his neck interrupted the blackness. His face was thin and pale, resolving itself into a wispy black goatee. His cheeks were high and sunken, his eyes set deep beneath thin black eyebrows. He stared placidly into the camera.