gns.thegraveyardvultures-第27部分

快捷操作: 按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页 按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页 按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部! 如果本书没有阅读完，想下次继续接着阅读，可使用上方 "收藏到我的浏览器" 功能 和 "加入书签" 功能！


uneless　chorus；　an　intonation　gathering　in　volume；　the　echoes　picking　it　up。　Animal…like　snarlings　that　sounded　vaguely　human　if　one　listened　carefully　enough。
　　
　　His　breathing　was　shallow；　almost　non…existent；　the　。38　was　held　loosely；　its　snub　barrel　pointing　in　the　direction　of　the　altar。
　　
　　This　was　it；　they　were　ing！
　　
　　
　　　CHAPTER　THIRTEEN
　　　
　　DARKNESS　HAD　fallen　when　Spode　led　his　followers　back　out　of　the　church。　No　longer　were　they　the　sullen；　fearful　congregation　to　whom　he　had　served　a　cannibalistic　munion。　They　cursed；　jostled　behind　him　in　a　straggling　single　file；　their　features　devilish　masks　of　lust；　wild　beasts　roaring　for　the　kill。
　　
　　Royston　Spode　smiled　wanly　at　the　girl　by　his　side。　Only　Alison　seemed　her　usual　stoic　self。　The　rest　of　them　were　savages；　as　primitive　as　the　wild　tribes　in　the　heart　of　darkest　Africa　where　voodoo　had　first　begun。　He　had　made　them　this　way；　charged　their　personalities　in　a　matter　of　minutes　by　giving　them　Satan's　cup　to　drink　from　once　their　grisly　First　Supper　was　over；　the　symbolic　antithesis　of　the　holy　grail；　filled　with　an　intoxicating　Haitian　punch　that　dulled　their　brains　and　fired　their　bodies　with　an　overwhelming　desire　for　the　obscenities　which　this　night　promised。　Perhaps　he　should　not　have　brought　the　West　Indian　girl　along　but　it　would　have　been　wrong　to　deny　her　the　chance　to　participate　in　the　ultimate　rites。　After　tonight　there　would　be　no　turning　back　for　any　of　them。　Even　he　was　nervous；　a　high　priest　whose　powers　were　far　greater　than　any　of　the　black　houngans　or　bocors；　flinched　at　the　prospect　of　summoning　the　Master　himself。　For　only　the　Great　One　was　able　to　sanction　the　transfer　of　power　from　the　remains　of　William　Gardiner　to　Royston　Spode。　Surely　he　would　be　pleased　that　there　was　one　so　able　who　was　willing　to　carry　on　his　work　。。。　or　was　there　another　somewhere　better　suited　。　。　。　such　as　Quentin　Sabat　who　lived　in　Mark　Sabat？　But　if　Sabat　was　sacrificed；　that　black　soul　destroyed　。。　。　Quentin　must　not　be　set　free　to　bee　a　rival　to　Spode；　perhaps　to　overthrow　him。　The　sooner　Sabat　was　dead　the　easier　the　vicar　would　feel。　He　began　to　hurry；　some　of　those　behind　him　breaking　into　a　shambling　run。
　　
　　The　moment　he　descended　below　ground　Spode　experienced　that　feeling　of　foreboding　again。　His　senses　tuned　to　the　evil；　detected　an　undercurrent　of　hostility　。　。　。　towards　himself　Once　he　glanced　back；　met　Alison's　expressionless　gaze；　felt　unfortable。　But　she　was　a　mere　servant　girl；　she　could　not　harm　him。　Perhaps　it　would　have　been　better　for　her　to　have　remained　behind。
　　
　　A　sense　of　urgency；　panic；　almost　gripped　him；　but　there　was　no　reason　why　it　should。　The　candles　still　burned；　Sabat　was　lying　in　a　shaft　of　wan　light；　bloodsoaked　and　unrecognisable。　Spode　did　not　look　for　the　body　of　Andy　Drew　which　should　have　been　propped　up　in　the　shadows　only　a　foot　or　so　away　because　the　youth　was　of　no　consequence；　he　had　serve　a　purpose；　paid　in　full　for　his　treacherous　act　just　as　Miranda　had。　All　they　needed　now　was　Sabat's　blood　gushing　from　a　severed　jugular。
　　
　　The　others　were　clustered　in　a　semi…circle　behind　him；　disrobing　themselves　with　an　eagerness　which　he　must　temper。　First　the　sacrifice；　afterwards　they　could　do　anything　they　liked。　Many　of　them　were　already　naked；　lusting　and　groping　for　one　another；　as　though　they　had　forgotten　the　true　purpose　of　this　night。
　　
　　'Stop'　Spode　yelled；　his　deafening　tones　powered　by　the　acoustics　of　the　crypt。　'First　we　must　sacrifice　Sabat　and　beseech　the　A　ncient　One　to　grant　our　request　this　night！'
　　
　　The　coven　froze；　stared　at　him　with　blank　faces。
　　
　　'On　your　bellies；　hide　your　eyes　fools；　for　you　are　not　worthy　to　look　upon　the　Master。　He　will　strike　dead　any　whose　eyes　rest　on　his　sacred　form！'
　　
　　Now　there　was　fear　on　their　faces；　their　crazed　brains　seeming　to　understand；　throwing　themselves　prostrate。　Only　Alison　remained　standing；　staring　straight　ahead　of　her。
　　
　　'You；　too；'　Spode　hissed；　'do　you　dare　to　disobey　me？'
　　
　　She　nodded；　sank　slowly　to　her　knees　but　did　not　lower　her　head。　It　was　as　though　she　was　held　transfixed　by　the　black　altar；　the　sacrificial　victim　and　the　skeleton。　Once　her　eyes　moved；　peered　into　the　shadows　which　seemed　to　encroach　as　the　candles　flickered　and　dimmed。　Perhaps　she　had　noticed　the　absence　of　the　mutilated　corpse　but　if　so　she　did　not　speak。
　　
　　Spode　turned　angrily　away　from　her。　If　she　saw　and　was　struck　down　by　the　Master　then　that　was　her　own　fault。　He　could　not　waste　any　more　time　on　her。　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　e　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　e　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　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　momentarily　at　the　awful　sight　which　greeted　him　but　opening　them　again　because　he　knew　he　must　look　eventually。　At　least　he　was　still　alive　and　sane；　unscathed；　a　shipwrecked　mariner　adrift　on　the　ocean　savouring　every　precious　second　left　to　him。
　　
　　The　dead　and　dying　littered　the　floor；　a　miniature　replica　of　that　aftermath　of　battle　on　the　barren　astral　wasteland　of　Hopelessness；　rats　instead　of　vultures　waiting　to　feed　on　the　slain；　knowing　that　the　wounded　would　die。　Faces　smashed　into　bloody　anonymity；　crumpled；　naked　bodies　that　bore　cloven　hoofprints　as　though　they　were　branded　yearlings　struck　down　by　anthrax　and　still　twitching；　death…throes　that　grew　weaker　with　every　passing　second。
　　
　　Only　Alison　appeared　to　be　unharmed；　mentally　and　physically；　kneeling　there　in　that　same　torn　dress　of　many　colours　with　not　a　trace　of　fear　in　her　wide　dark　eyes。　She　did　not　appear　surprised　to　see　Sabat；　brief　recognition　flickering　in　her　eyes。　He　straightened　up；　stepped　out　to　go　to　her　and　in　that　instant　a　shadow　fell　across　the　single　pool　of　candlelight。
　　
　　Sabat　recoiled；　his　first　reaction　being　to　try　to　squeeze　back　into　that　meagre　place　of　refuge　which　had　spared　him。　Aghast；　he　thought　for　one　moment　that　the　paralytic　drug　had　begun　to　work　again；　draining　his　muscles　but　the　。38　came　up　swiftly；　instinctive　snap…shooting　that　blitzed　a　hail　of　lead　on　whatever　it　was　that　came　towards　him。　Oh　God；　not　even　Sabat　could　create　anything　like　that！
　　
　　The　shape　was　human；　a　lumbering　silhouette　that　resembled　Royston　Spode　yet　the　features　could　only　have　e　from　the　depths　of　Hades；　a　misshapen　skull　that　had　had　flesh　clumsily　adhered　to　it　as　though　in　a　blasphemous　attempt　to　create　Man。　Bloated　eyes　too　large　for　the　narrow　sockets；　a　hooked　nose；　the　nostrils　clogged　with　mucus；　a　mouth　that　was　smeared　redly　as　though　it　was　a　ghoul　that　had　recently　feasted　on　raw　flesh。　The　bullets　had　chipped　the　head；　cut　grooves　across　the　cheeks　and　jawbone　before　ricochetting　harmlessly　away。　And　now　it　was　determined　to　vent　its　fury　on　Sabat！
　　
　　Seconds　that　might　have　been　an　eternity；　and　in　that　time　Sabat　recognised　his　attacker；　realised　the　full　implications　of　what　had　happened　during　those　nightmarish　minutes　of　carnage。　Spode's　body　it　was；　on　which　some　horrific　super…natural　transplant　had　taken　place；　the　resurrec