gns.thegraveyardvultures-第3部分

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ht　in　that　clearing；　a　revolting　specimen　of　senility；　but　a　young　and　handsome　man　who　bore　his　own　looks。　A　desert　landscape　in　which　nothing　grew　except　sparse　cacti　and　even　they　were　wilting　in　the　terrible　heat。　Water　that　loomed　up　ahead　and　then　vanished　as　they　approached　；it。　But　Quentin　seemed　unperturbed　striding　along　as　though　he　felt　no　disfort；　Mark　struggling　along　beside　him　and　trying　to　hide　the　agony　of　his　roasting　flesh。
　　
　　And　in　the　hottest　part　of　the　day　（did　the　temperature　ever　vary　and　was　there　such　a　thing　as　nightfall？）　they　came　upon　the　battleground；　multilated　bloody　bodies　lying　in　the　sand；　huge　black　vultures　devouring　the　human　carrion；　seemingly　undisturbed　by　the　intrusion　of　living　men。
　　
　　Mark　Sabat　stared　and　felt　the　horror　eating　his　stomach　like　a　quick…growing　cancer。　Two　races　were　intermingled　with　the　carnage；　light…skinned；…fair…haired　warriors　lying　prone　with　the　heavier…built；　dark…skinned　ones；　the　latter's　faces　brooding　scowls　even　in　death。　No　victors；　no　losers；　just　a　stalemate　deathlock　in　the　eternal　battle　of　Good　versus　Evil；　Light　versus　Dark。
　　
　　And　only　two　remained　alive　in　this　desert　hell；　himself　and　Quentin。　The　last　ambassadors。　The　armies　were　destroyed　and　now　the　oute　depended　upon　this　final　duel　to　the　death　between　the　two　of　them。
　　
　　Sabat　awoke；　his　clothes　clinging　damply　to　his　skin；　his　face　wet　with　sweat。　Waning　sunlight　flooded　the　room　and　he　was　aware　that　it　was　late　afternoon。　Within　minutes　he　was　shivering　as　the　perspiration　began　to　cool　on　his　body；　his　thoughts　going　back　to　that　terrible　parched　desertland　of　death。　He　smiled　faintly　to　himself；　that　had　been　the　first　test；　his　astral　alone　with　Quentin's　in　that　burning　hell；　but　he　had　been　strong　enough　to　return　to　his　own　physical　body　even　though　his　brother　had　e　back　with　him。　Neither　could　destroy　the　other　in　the　final　battle　so　both　must　share　the　same　body。
　　
　　But　the　real　battle　was　only　just　beginning。
　　
　　
　　　CHAPTER　ONE
　　
　　THE　CEMETERY　had　long　been　untended。　A　quarter　of　a　century　ago　it　had　been　the　pride　of　the　small　village。　Neat　rows　of　white；　marbled　tombstones；　bedecked　regularly　with　fresh　flowers　according　to　the　season；　the　grass　trimmed　so　that　it　resembled　strips　of　lush　green　lawn。　Now　the　worst　side　of　nature　had　taken　over。　Brambles　which　had　hitherto　been　kept　in　check　relishing　the　freedom　to　stretch　their　thorny　tentacles；　moss　and　dandelions　obtaining　a　stranglehold　on　the　grass　and　stifling　it　so　that　it　grew　long　and　brown　and　went　to　seed。　The　elements　whipped　the　gravestones　mercilessly；　obliterating　the　lettering　so　that　names　and　dates　were　indecipherable；　and　the　dead　passed　into　oblivion。
　　
　　The　small　church；　too；　standing　amid　the　tall　scots　pines　had　fallen　into　a　state　of　disrepair。　Slates　had　blown　from　the　roof；　smashed　on　the　weed…covered　path　from　the　lichgate　and　had　not　been　replaced；　guttering　rusted　and　overflowed　during　heavy　rainfall　because　starlings　regularly　nested　and　roosted　there；　the　big　double　doors　fast　conceding　to　the　depredations　of　woodworm。
　　
　　One　weekly　service　on　Sunday　mornings　was　a　last　reminder　that　religion　still　clung　to　this　decaying　edifice；　conducted　by　an　ageing　curate　who　was　long　past　retirement。　And　when　his　time　came；　it　was　rumoured　in　the　village；　the　Church　missioners　would　concede　defeat　and　allow　yet　another　of　their　remote　outposts　to　fall。　Because　nobody　wanted　the　church；　that　much　was　apparent　by　the　dwindling　congregation　which　had　now　fallen　below　half…a…dozen；　while　the　ranks　of　the　godless　were　swelling。
　　
　　The　bishop；　writing　in　his　diocesan　magazine；　had　referred　to　the　possible　closure　of　this　once　beautiful　church。　A　word　had　been　sprayed　on　the　entrance　doors　with　aerosol　paint　（he　conveniently　abstained　from　quoting　the　word　or　even　mentioning　that　it　had　four　letters）；　and　a　couple　of　graves　had　been　'interfered　with'。　That　worthy　man　chose　to　remonstrate　liberally　in　print　with　anonymous　vandals　although　he　blamed　the　villagers　for　this　apparent　lack　of　pride　in　their　church。　He　did　not　mention　what　had　bee　of　the　proceeds　of　a　long…established　Church　Restoration　Fund；　much　of　which　had　been　on　deposit　account　at　the　bank　for　many　years。　Nor　was　it　clear　whether　the　Diocese　had　totally　financed　a　hideously　modern　place　of　worship　which　was　in　the　last　stages　of　construction　in　one　of　the　city　suburbs。　Bishop　Wentnor　wasn't　one　to　go　into　scrupulous　detail　where　church　finances　were　concerned。
　　
　　Only　on　moonlit　nights　was　any　of　the　former　elegance　of　St　Adrian's　Church　restored。　The　ethereal　silvery　glow　accentuated　the　architecture　while　obscuring　the　missing　slates　and　crumbling　stonework　in　shadow。　Even　the　churchyard　took　on　some　degree　of　respectability。　And　it　was　during　these　periods　of　a　full　moon　that　worshippers　came　in　numbers。　But　not　as　Bishop　Wentnor　would　have　wished。
　　
　　It　was　well　after　midnight　before　the　full　group　was　assembled　in　the　old　cemetery。　They　had　arrived　mostly　in　twos　or　singly；　creeping　stealthily　through　the　straggling　hedgerow　which　bordered　a　wood　at　the　rear；　talking　only　in　whispers；　then　falling　into　a　humble　respectful　silence　when　the　tall　man　in　flowing　black　robes；　his　face　concealed　by　the　dark　shadows　of　a　cowl；　had　arrived。　Now　they　stood　about　awkwardly；　teenagers　who　still　remembered　school　discipline；　shuffling　plimsolled　feet　and　discreetly　extinguishing　cigarettes　which　they　had　shielded　in　cupped　hands。
　　
　　The　tall　man　addressed　them　in　manding　tones；　a　long　arm　extended　to　single　out　a　grave　only　yards　away。　This　one　had　no　headstone；　just　a　wooden　marker。　A　recent　burial；　the　flowers　barely　starting　to　wilt。　The　aura　of　sadness　which　it　had　engendered　by　day　had　turned　to　a　sinister　atmosphere　by　night。
　　
　　Two　youths　produced　a　spade　and　a　pickaxe　which　they　had　brought　with　them。　They　received　an　approving　nod　from　the　man　whose　authority　none　disputed。　There　was　no　need　for　instructions　and　without　further　delay　they　began　to　dig。
　　
　　The　spadework　was　easy；　fresh　soil　made　soft　by　the　recent　grave　digging　so　that　the　pick　was　not　needed。　The　watchers　moved　in　closer；　eager　as　the　mound　of　soft　damp　earth　grew；　spilling　back　in　small　showers　until　finally　they　heard　stones　thudding　on　the　exposed　coffin　lid　down　below。　Necks　craned　forward；　two　well…built　youths　in　soiled　denims　stepped　out　of　the　group。　Now　the　pick　was　needed；　a　cracking　and　splintering　of　seasoned　wood。　Two。　standing　in　the　open　grave；　others　kneeling　to　assist　in　a　cumbersome　task；　dragging　the　enshrouded　corpse　up　from　its　last　resting　place。　The　tall　man　stood　back　with　folded　arms。
　　
　　The　full　moon　was　almost　at　its　zenith；　its　soft　light　showing　up　every　detail　as　trembling　hands　tore　at　the　shroud　revealing　dead　white　flesh。
　　
　　Gasps；　some　of　horror　from　those　who　had　not　experienced　necromancy　before。　The　corpse　was　naked　now　and　there　was　no　mistaking　the　beauty　of　the　young　girl。　She　could　not　have　been　more　than　eighteen；　the　mortician's　make…up　accentuating　the　darkness　of　her　long　hair；　lips　that　were　full　and　red　even　in　death；　breasts　sagging　but　perfectly　proportioned；　the　dark　'V　of　lower　hair　tantalising　the　watchers　so　that　some　became　aroused。
　　
　　'A　young；　dead　virgin　is　the　most　powerful　instrument　of　all。'　The　cowled　man's　long；　slender　fingers　were　stroking　the　cold　flesh　almost　lovingly；　dwelling　for　a　second　or　two　on　the　wide　surgeon's　scar　which　disfigured　the　flat　abdomen　even　in　the　moonlight。
　　
　　〃Ow　d'yer　know　'er's　a　virgin？'　There　was　open　insolence　in　the　tone　of　the　one　who　still　held　the　pickaxe。
　　
　　'Hold　your　tongue！'　The　cowl　had　fallen　back　exposing　a　broad；　cruel　face；　eyes　too　close　together；　the　mouth　a　thin　slit；　nostrils　dilated　with　fury。　'How　dare　you　question　my　judgement。　Sylvia　had　a　stomach　cancer　at　the　age　of　thirteen。　For　five　years　she　fought　a　battle　against　it；　mostly　in　hospital。　She　had　no　boyfriends。　Does　that　answer　your　question；　Julian？'
　　
　　The　other　nodded。
　　
　　'But　tonight；'　　the　coven　leader's　voice　became　high…pitched；　rose　almost　to　a　crescendo；　'that　virginity　will　be　lost！'
　　
　　'Jesus！'　a　tall　rangy　youth　backed　away。　'You're　not　going　to　。。。　'
　　
　　'Do　not　argue　with　me。　Our　Master　has　need　of　Sylvia　and　for　this　he　will　reward　us　richly。　Lift　her　on　to　that　tomb　over　there。　Hurry；　for　we　have　work　to　do　and　the　night　is　not　without　its　dangers。'
　　
　　Trembling　hands　lifted　the　dead　girl　and　laid　her　face　upwards　on　the　flat；　table…like　tomb　of　a　wealthy　village　family。　She　sagged；　a　leg　fell　and　swung　in　grim　lewdness　causing　several　of　the　younger　coven　members　to　jump　back　in　alarm。
　　
　　'Now；　Sheila；　get　undressed。　Everybody　get　undressed　for　the　Master　abhors　inhibitions。'
　　
　　Clothes　were　shed；　the　tall　man　beginning　a　low　incantation　as　he　followed　suit；　revealing　a　middle…aged　body　that　was　already　aroused。　A　slim；　fair…haired　girl　was　trembling　violently；　biting　her　lower　lip　as　though　trying　to　stem　a　flood　of　tears；　folded　arms　shielding　breasts　which　had　yet　to　reach　maturity。　She'd　never　thought　that　they　would　go　this　far。　Horace　（maybe　it　wasn't　even　his　real　name）　was　some　kind　of　sadist。　Up　until　now　it　had　all　been　a　kind　of　sexy　game　and　she　hadn't　minded　the　other　guys　having　her。　Horace　had　said　that　tonight　was　to　be　her　'initiation'　and　she'd　thought　that　was　just　an　excuse　for　another　orgy。　But　digging　up　a　dead　girl　who'd　spent　most　of　her　life　fighting　against　an　incurable　disease　。　。　。　ugh；　it　was　horrible！　She'd　have　no　part　in　this。
　　
　　'I。。。　I　want　to　go　home；'　her　plea　sounded　pathetic　and　she　knew　she　ought　to　have　voiced　her　disapproval　before　she'd　stripped　off。　They　had　dug　up　a　grave　on　the　last　full　moon　but　that　had　been　a　decrepit　skeleton；　a　bit　creepy　but　the　guy　had　been　dead　for　half　a　century　and　it　wasn't　doing　him　any　harm。　Anyway；　they'd　reburied　him　afterwards。
　　
　　Horace　paused；　his　intonation　dying　away。　When　he　spoke　again　his　voice　was　angry；　his　thin　lips　scarcely　seeming　to　move。　'It's　too　late　now　I'm　afraid；　my　dear。　You've　gone　too　far　to　back　out。　Now；　go　and　lie　alongside　the　lovely　Sylvia　and　remember　。　。　。　it's　the　Master　you're　giving　yourself　to。　Feel　privileged；　honoured；　to　share　the　sacrificial　altar　with　a　virgin　'
　　
　　Sheila　Dowson　felt　her　senses　reeling；　thought　for　a　moment　that　she　was　going　to　faint。　Her　instinct　was　to　turn　and　run；　maybe　if　she　hadn't　been　naked　she　would　have　done　just　that。　But　somehow　the　thought　of　running　nude　through　the　village　back　to　her　home　was　an　equally　frightening　thought。
　　
　　'You　can't　make　me　do　anything　I　don't　want　to　do！'　She　had　meant　to　sound　firm　and　defiant　but　her　voice　trembled　and　suddenly　the　pent…up　tears　of　terror　came　in　a　flood。　Then　she　began　to　scream。
　　
　　'Dear　me；　the　girl's　being　hysterical。'　Horace's　tone　was　menacing；　pitiless。　'John；　Michael；　carry　her　to　the　altar。　And　I　think　we'll　also　have　to　bind　her　and　gag　her！'
　　
　　Sheila's　struggles　were　futile　in　the　grip　of　the　two　young　men　who　hastened　to　obey　their　leader's　order