gns.thegraveyardvultures-第30部分

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！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　　
　　'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　resurrected　features　of　William　Gardiner　festooned　on　to　Royston's　own　obesity；　a　blending　of　body　and　soul　that　had　somehow　gone　wrong　because　of　the　false　sacrifice。　And　Spode　knew；　knew　that　partial　success　was　indeed　miserable　failure　and　Sabat　would　pay　the　penalty　for　what　had　happened！
　　
　　Spode　was　invincible　to　mortal　attack；　Sabat　might　just　as　well　have　wasted　his　shells　on　that　skeleton　that　had　lain　there　earlier。　Slow　measured　steps；　a　wrestler　closing　in　on　an　inferior　opponent；　knowing　full　well　that　he　can　crush　the　life　out　of　him　but　preferring　to　savour　the　finale。
　　
　　Sabat　closed　his　eyes；　tried　to　pray　。　。　。　struggled　to　find　the　right　words；　remembered　just　one　line。　'Lord；　beat　down　Satan　quickly！'
　　
　　Spode　checked　but　only　momentarily；　as　though　another　bullet　had　glanced　off　him；　an　annoyance　but　nothing　serious。　Sabat　stepped　back　another　pace；　felt　the　roughness　of　the　wall　gouge　his　shoulder　blades。　He　closed　his　eyes。　This；　then　was　the　end。　Finis。　His　senses　swam；　the　paralysis　seemed　to　be　ing　back；　a　dull　creeping　numbness　preparing　him　for　death。　He　didn't　mind　dying；　it　was　what　happened　afterwards　that　worried　him。　Even　Quentin　was　silent；　his　brother's　soul　succumbing　to　the　presence　of　a　terrible　evil。
　　
　　Sabat　could　smell　this　thing　that　might　have　been　Spode；　a　lingering　stench　of　uncleansed　stables；　rank　foul　breath　ing　in　icy　blasts。　Something　touched　his　arm；　had　him　shuddering　and　turning　his　head；　yelling　'Get　it　over。　Kill　me；　finish　me！'
　　
　　Even　as　he　awaited　death　in　some　horribly　agonising　manner；　a　thud　jerked　him　out　of　his　resignation　to　the　end；　a　noise　such　as　Spode　had　made　when　he　hacked　mercilessly　at　the　body　he　believed　to　be　Sabat's；　a　tearing；　cutting　sound　like　a　knife　blade　being　forced　to　the　limit　of　its　sharpness；　then　brute　force　taking　over。　A　scream　that　no　human　vocal　chords　were　capable　of　making；　a　screeching　and　cursing　in　a　tongue　which　Sabat　did　not　understand。
　　
　　Sabat's　eyes　were　open。　This　could　not　be　happening；　it　was　some　cruel　figment　of　fantasy；　his　astral　torturing　him　during　that　brief　period　when　life　slipped　into　death；　a　taunting　hope　that　would　be　dashed　with　the　ing　of　oblivion。
　　
　　Spode　was　tottering；　floundering；　a　drowning　man　panicking。　Those　vile　features　were　unrecognisable　in　an　expression　of　unbelievable　agony；　lips　moving　soundlessly　now；　mute　curses；　falling。　He　hit　the　floor；　heaving　as　he　struggled　for　breath；　a　grotesque　fish　that　found　itself　grounded；　its　death　struggles　growing　weaker　by　the　second；　lying　there；　eyes　that　dimmed；　staring　hatefully　up　at　Sabat；　moving　on　to　。。。　Alison！
　　
　　The　West　Indian　girl　stood　there；　eyes　closed　as　though　she　could　not　bring　herself　to　look　upon　this　creature　who　had　once　been　her　master；　the　bloody　sacrificial　knife　slipping　slowly　from　her　fingers　and　clattering　on　the　stones。　Her　lips　were　moving；　Sabat　had　to　strain　his　ears　to　catch　the　words　uttered　in　Creole。　'Die；　fiend　of　a　fa