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The hand, which reached down the jewelled sacrificial knife shook; that
feeling of impending disaster was growing stronger by the second.
Sabat had his gun trained on Spode, a direct bead that would have ploughed a
slug between those narrow eyes and churned a path of splintered bloody bone
out through the balding crown. A professional stance, left hand gripping the
wrist of his gun arm. He would not have missed, an error was out of the
question. Yet he hesitated, not because of any twinge of conscience, that he
was blasting a sitting target from ambush; he'd done that on innumerable
occasions in the past and never lost a wink of sleep over it.
Two reasons; first he was curious, intrigued to witness the sacrifice of his
'own body', anticipating his secret delight when Spode discovered the
deception. Second, Alison was standing directly behind her master and there
was a risk that the slug might take a deflection on its death-course and mow
her down too. He didn't feel anything for her except ... her body was
sensuous, inviting, and he would settle his score with her in a frenzied lust
afterwards. Dead, she was no use to him. So he held his fire.
Royston Spode had the knife, the blood of its last victim barely dry on the
blade. He was chanting again, words that Sabat recognised as Creole, changing
to Latin. Not the Black Mass, something else that had come from a dark land in
the days when it was very young, passed down by word of mouth to the few
select sorcerers of the ultimate evil.
Those on the floor were whimpering, their fear escalating, penetrating their
intoxication with a terrible realisation of what might happen. Alison, too,
was visibly shaking, her features were pale. An icy wind howled and seemed to
come in down the entrance tunnel. Spode was screeching, attempting to make
himself heard, bringing the weapon down in a vicious arc that beheaded the
corpse at a single blow. And at that very moment every candle flame fluttered,
extinguished in a smoke haze and plunged the crypt into blackness.
Sabat cursed, realised his mistake, almost fired blindly on his original
alignment of the .38 but he had never been one to shoot rashly. Accuracy was
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uncertain, the stabbing flame gave away one's position to the enemy. He
waited, his mouth dry, finger lightly on the trigger.
Everybody was screaming or was it a host of invisible evil spirits borne on
the wind? A melee; perhaps the members of the coven had panicked and were
fleeing blindly trying to find the exit. Cursing, bodies falling.
Even as Sabat deliberated upon a course of action he heard the pounding of
hooves, the snorting of some huge demented beast, its putrid smell. Oh Jesus
God, he'd left it too late, allowed Spode to summon the
Evil One when one well-placed. 38 slug would have stopped him!
Sabat found himself cowering back in the narrow cleft, his instinct to start
firing wildly into the snarling
cauldron of blackness but logically he knew it would be useless, a futile
waste of ammunition that might bring the wrath of the attacking powers upon
him, their vengeance terrible for this puny mortal insult.
Something smashed and rolled across the floor, probably one of those
candlesticks. Hooves struck, flesh and bone was being pulped; wild bestial
noises and human cries of terror. He felt the rush of air, the nearness of
things beyond even his own knowledge and at any moment he expected to be
dragged from his hiding place. Quentin's voice pounded against his brain but
no mockery this time, sheer terror in the warning; 'Flee while there is still
time.'
I cannot, for Damballah has trapped me and 1 am here to see this through!
And then, as suddenly as the malevolent maelstrom had begun, it ended, the
blackness instantly becalmed; people were groaning, somebody laughing
insanely. A rat scurried across the floor as though it had been caught out in
the open and sought the protection of its hole before the next psychic storm.
Sabat waited, blinked as light came suddenly, a shimmering nervous black altar
candle, ignited by some unknown hand, brightening as though it sought a
missing mate. He braced himself, afraid of what he might see, closing his eyes [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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