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communion, too. Desecrated wine to be drunk . . . well, not exactly wine . . . a claret liquid of a
somewhat thicker texturel But come, 1 must assist you to your last resting place . . . '
Sabat was powerless to resist as Royston Spode's strong hand gripped his own, hauling him to his feet.
Sabat stumbled, propelled along with ease by his captor, his eyelids threatening to close again as he was
taken along the narrow winding path amid the fragrant rhododendron bushes, then down into the dank,
stuffy catacombs where in centuries past the wealthy landowners had buried their dead.
Sabat could not fight off the urge to sleep any longer once his body was laid flat on that stone slab. One
last mocking laugh and then Spode was gone, striding back up into the sunlit world above where he
played the role of a holy man, a Jonathan Wild, the spider at the centre of the web of evil, ensnaring his
followers, dominating their souls and compelling them to take part in a blasphemous communion service
in this beautiful little church amid the poplar trees. And this evening they would do just that, calling upon
the powers of darkness to reward them this coming night, that they, too, might partake of the evil which
existed within the bones of a long-dead black magician.
As Sabat drifted into an uneasy slumber he thought he heard a faint rattling sound close by, as though a
skeleton had eased limbs that had been confined for years in a cramped coffin. Various odours mingled
and smarted in the drugged man's nostrils, aromas which he vaguely recognised . . . decomposing flesh,
the mustiness of this damp, almost airless place... and an iron smell - like blood that had been spilled
recently!
And in his final conscious thoughts Sabat conceded defeat. Because he accepted that for the first time in
his life he was powerless to fight. He might never awake from this drugged sleep into which he was
drifting. The coven had their human sacrifice; it mattered not to them whether they killed him sleeping or
awake. All they wanted was his blood -Quentin's blood!
CHAPTER TEN
SABAT'S ASTRAL body looked down upon his sleeping, pale physical form. He grimaced at what he
saw. His drugged features had a pallid, corpse-like look about them, his chest scarcely rising and falling
with his ultra-shallow breathing. And beside him lay the hideous skeleton of WilHam Gardi-ner, the skull
and arms dark with congealed blood, turned towards him as though it laughed with that horrible cavity of
a mouth, and sought to embrace him with its long arms.
And Miranda ... Oh Jesus, they'd pay in full for what they had done to her! Her body lay in a recess,
cast-off garbage thrown to one side to rot. Her head lolled back exposing a huge gash the length of her
neck, her previously unblemished flesh matted and streaked with her own dried blood. And as a final
insult they had parted her thighs, a mockery in death of the way she had lived.
Sabat hesitated, hovering close to the bowing ceiling of the crypt. In some ways he doubted the wisdom
of leaving his body. It still lived and the Reverend Spode had only to return and administer some
unspeakable physical attack and Sabat would be prevented from returning to it. Yet if he lingered within
himself then they could trap his astral in the short blackout following death when he was helpless, and
give only Quentin his freedom. Surely Royston Spode realised that once Sabat slumbered his astral
would be able to escape, or was there some ulterior motive behind it?
Certainly Sabat could not harm the living in his astral form; he could only attack Royston if the latter
chose to join him on one of the planes and it was obvious that the evil vicar was going to be far too busy
throughout the day-fight hours to do that. In which case Spode had allowed Sabat astral freedom
knowing that in this form he was relatively harmless and when night fell he would instinctively rejoin his
body in the hope of somehow being able to avert death.
There was nothing to be achieved by remaining in this place of death and mutilation any longer. He
soared with a sense of relief down that wet cold passage, shot out into the open like a bat emerging at
dusk from its daytime roost. Almost with reluctance he entered the vicarage, now sensing the atmosphere
of latent evil which he had failed to notice earlier because he had been blinded to it by his faith in a
country vicar.
The hall and drawing room were empty so he made for the stairway, knew only too well that Royston
Spode was here somewhere. The landing was wide with several doors leading off from it. He hesitated,
almost turned back because there was no time to waste in idle curiosity. But it would only take a few
seconds and he had several hours left before nightfall when the coven would converge on their temple of
worship to carry out the ultimate act of depravity.
The Reverend Royston Spode was in the third bedroom which Sabat entered, his spreading quivering
body virtually hiding the girl who writhed beneath him. Sabat's first sensation was one of revulsion, those
rolls of fat which had possibly once been solid muscle were obese, the wobbling bottom reminding him of
his oft-quoted quip about clergymen who grew fat arses by sitting on other people's sofas and drinking
scrounged cups of tea.
Sabat moved lower, intent on seeing who it was with whom the clergyman copulated. Of course, it was
the West Indian girl, radiantly beautiful in her nakedness. Her eyes were closed as she writhed and
gasped and almost certainly Royston would not be venturing on to the astral plane in the near future.
Sabat left them to it, pitied the girl in spite of the fact that she had given him doped coffee; she'd had her
orders and it would be more than her life was worth to disobey her master's demands. Just as she could
not refuse him now.
Sabat soared up into the summer sky, saw some diving swallows and envied them their freedom. Below
him the village resembled a toy model, growing smaller as he gained height, and he found it hard to
believe that dangerous evil could be spawned in such a tranquil setting. There was no sign of the Daimler
where he had parked it; they had wasted no time in disposing of it. Sabat's trail was already obliterated.
In due course he came to that barren wasteland which was his intended destination; that arid expanse
where the final battle between the dark and light-skinned races had been fought. Here he changed his
form, a bearded, sweat-soaked warrior clad only in a tattered loincloth, experiencing the rigours of the
merciless sun, scuffing blistered feet in the powdery silver sand.
Water holes beckoned and then mocked him by fading into the shimmering haze, palm trees that turned
out to be stunted cacti when he approached them. Sabat knew it was self-torture, masochism, that he
could have used the shape of a desert bird to traverse the distance so much quicker, but this was the way
it had to be; a pilgrim on his way to worship at the shrine of the gods, humble and beseeching his gods to
grant his request.
The sun was past its zenith when he spied the battle scene, bloated vultures waddling amongst the slain.
Their cruel beaks speared dead eyes, their crops bulging with a glut of these delicacies. Tomorrow, when
they had digested their optic banquet, they would return for the decomposing flesh. Days later they would
be gleaning the whitening bones and then there would be no way of identifying the slain forces of good
from the corpses of evil.
Slowly Sabat wound his way between the bodies. Eyeless sockets seemed to follow his every
movement, the smell of death and flesh which was already beginning to putrefy hung heavy in the still
atmosphere. The slain stretched as far as the eye could see, rigor mortis capturing the final throes of
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