"Guy N. Smith - Sabat 3 - Cannibal Cult" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

enough to go to Paris. I don't have the time anyway. Jumbled thoughts which
emanated from that open clearing in the wooded mountains and travelled
incoherently. A beautiful SAS colonel's wife who liked to whip men until they
cringed and pleaded for mercy. Lilith, Goddess of Darkness, reborn, using that
same colonel to do her bidding; indoctrinating him into believing that he was
a reincarnation of Adolf Hitler and that, between them, the world was theirs
for the taking with their pseudo vampire army. And a clergyman who also
thought he could bring the world to its knees, a takeover by the dark forces.

And so it would have been were it not for your meddling, Sabat!

Vicious female tones, a cry of hate and anguish from beyond the grave.
Laughter. Sabat wasn't sure whether it was his brother's soul or the insane
cacklings of Royston Spode, from the depths of that crumbling crypt where the
evil churchman's dreams had finally been buried. They were all trying to get
at him from beyond the final barrier.

Sabat's body burned. With every ounce of strength he could muster he threw the
bedclothes back, kicked them clear of his overheated flesh, basked in the
cooling sensations brought on by a chill night atmosphere, one that was
falling rapidly.

It was dark. He tried to work out how long he had been in bed. It had been
fully daylight when he had come upstairs and that seemed only a matter of
minutes ago. He attempted to identify the computerised illuminated digits on
the radio alarm clock, but the fingers swam and merged into meaningless
hieroglyphics. He raised himself up on to an elbow but fell back on to the
pillow, heard the wheezings of his own breaths. Christ, he'd never been so
weak before!

You're weak now, Sabat. Helpless. You can't fight anymore!

He tensed, recognised the husky dominant tones of Catriona Lealan. But that
was impossible; he had destroyed her utterly, body and soul! Somebody was
mimicking her, but it had the same effect. Just thinking about her as she used
to be in those far-off days was doing things to him ...

Sabat tried to check the feeling, tried to think of other things, but it was
futile. His pulses raced and his fevered body demanded satisfaction, ordered
him to pay homage to the memory of one who had once loved him with a sadistic
viciousness.

Somehow his sweaty fingers found the strength to do what his erection was
screaming out for. He tensed, shuddered, cast off the feeling of guilt and
felt it replaced by one of unbelievable euphoria. To hell with everybody!
Watch me if you want to, you bastards, because I like you watching me.

His nakedness was bathed in sweat, every nerve afive and responding. He wasn't
ill after all; just experiencing pent-up frustration because he hadn't had a
woman for a long time now. And in the darkened room they were willing him to