"Smith, Guy N - Sabat 04 - The Druid Connection" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

The pendulum swung and Sabat could never be sure of himself, an exorcist with unbelievable psychic powers which might one day prove to be his own undoing. Quentin had been silent for too long and now it seemed that he had been stirred by the sight of a face from the past, the cruel features of Bishop Avenson!

Sabat eased the car into the flow of traffic, could still hear Quentin's laughter somewhere far away. Then he straightened up, gripped the wheel, and his jaw tightened. Hell, if it was a fight the powers of evil wanted then it was a fight they'd get. He felt the comforting weight of the -38 in its holster beneath his right armpit, a boost to his confidence although its effectiveness was often limited against the foes he came up against. Any weapon was better than none.

He drove steadily once he was clear of the city traffic, the tinted windscreen shielding his eyes from the rays of the dying sun in the west. He checked the time: six-twenty. There was no hurry. Tonight he would install himself in his new headquarters and tomorrow he would begin his investigations. To have rushed straightaway to the church without having first ascertained the full strength of the enemy would have been foolhardy indeed. Time was on his side and the Church were footing the bill. Sabat reckoned they owed him that.

An hour later he eased the Daimler into the drive of the small modern detached house on the outskirts of the village. Once, only a decade ago, this village had had a resident parson but the Church hierarchy had decreed that the upkeep of a parsonage with dwindling congregations was superfluous. So the impressive black and white building had been sold for an extortionate sum and a succession of curates had taken up residence in this modest new abode. They had moved on to other places but it was anybody's guess where the Reverend Philip Owen had gone, Sabat reflected. Something from out of the shadows had claimed his soul and Sabat must be on his guard to make sure that his own did not follow. Quentin's influence was a dangerous weakness, the chink in his armour.

He let himself into the house and inspected it from top to bottom. Neat and economically furnished, a typical bachelor abode. Sabat laughed to himself; after all, he was a bachelor and in those few moments he was aware of a familiar sensation beginning to dominate the lower regions of his body, monopolising his thoughts. Damn it, whenever Quentin reminded him of his presence Sabat experienced erotic thoughts, a kind of weakening of his resources. Sex was his Achilles' heel, a driving obsession once he was in the mood. And it was a long time since he had had a woman.

His thoughts flipped, rested briefly on the sensuous body of Catriona Lealan to whose sadistic pleasures he had submitted on memorable occasions until finally he had flogged her viciously in the castle dungeons of Armageddon because a mightier power had commanded him to do so.' And Madeleine Gaufridi whom he had met in the Ice Palace on the Jungfrau. And many others. . . .

In those few minutes everything else was forgotten; Bishop Boyce and Bishop Avenson, and the reason he was here. An obsession like a forest fire, smouldering at first, bursting into flame, leaping, roaring, devouring everything before it. Sabat was, indeed, a man possessed, Quentin's jeering laughter Urging him on, his body demanding a mate when there was none available. A crazed lust that had him tearing his clothes from his body, tossing them across the small bedroom, hating them because they deprived him of the nakedness which he desired. Flushed and trembling he regarded his reflection in the full-length wardrobe mirror, that circumcision scar starkly white against the suffusion of blood in his erection, a stag at the rutting stand with no hind in sight.

'Damn you, Quentin,' Sabat cursed his own reflection aloud, his features twisted into a mask of fate, 'you play upon my only weakness.'

'You are weak, a mere mortal,' Quentin's words seemed to form on Mark's own lips, or perhaps it was a distortion of the mirror. 'Now you will obey the desires of your body. You cannot disobey.'

Sabat flung himself on to the coverlet of the single bed, the springs groaning beneath his weight, then beginning to creak loudly, rhythmically. His breath came in short gasps, his muscular body trembling with the strain, frustration and pleasure torturing him with unbelievable ferocity; a sprinter seeing the finishing tape ahead of him, exerting every muscle, total mental and physical commitment yet it eluded him like some marshland jack-o'-lantern. No longer could he contain the cries, the shouted obscenities, Catriona Lealan returning to torture him, mocking him. They all came and went, jeering him because he could not reach them, his body writhing and convulsing but still he was not satisfied. Faster and faster, his quivering flesh shiny with sweat. Falling, thudding on to the carpeted floor and scarcely noticing, verging on hysteria. Now he could see himself in the mirror again, Sabat a slave unto himself, a blurred pathetic thing with Quentin's cries ringing in his ears. Faster, faster. And still faster.

At last he made it, a volcanic eruption within himself, molten lava shooting forth; his writhings growing weaker and weaker. And weaker. Finally he was lying still, Quentin's voice no longer to be heard, just the roaring of his own pounding blood, the wheezing of his lungs as he gulped for air, physically and mentally shattered.

God, the bastard had hit him hard this time; so unexpected, awaiting the opportunity after months of absence from his thoughts. The room was dark except for the glow of a distant streetlamp, an ethereal light that enabled him to see again the outline of his own reflection in that mirror. A man, broken mentally and physically, easy prey for those from beyond the shadows should they come to take him.

Sabat closed his eyes, began the fight back. First he had to control his breathing, try and bring it back to normal. Fighting to reason; this had been no ordinary session of masturbation. Torture as opposed to pleasure, vile fantasies mocking him, highlighting that teenage homosexual experience which had driven him to seek refuge in the Church. The ultimate in degradation. Vigorously he had defiled himself, done what they had wanted him to do. They knew why he was here and had sent Quentin. A warning?

Sabat fought against panic. Gradually his breathing returned to normal and he sat up. Christ, he was weak, and so cold, the sweat having chilled on his body. He shivered, managed to stand and fought off the dizziness. Somehow he made it across the room and found the light switch, shielding his eyes from the blinding glare.

His condition was temporarily akin to the after-effects of pneumonia, reminding him how they had got to him the last time, how he had joined forces with those eaters of human flesh.* It was happening all over again.

He staggered out across the landing and into the bathroom, vomiting violently into the bowl. His head began to ache, a spreading pain behind the eyes which could be the forerunner of a blinding migraine. Quentin had taken him unawares, given him no time to fight back. They might come for him at any moment. . . .

He began to run the bath, closing his eyes in an attempt to shut out the light, the billowing steam warming his shivering body. He needed sleep, badly, but it would be dangerous, and he did not have the strength to set up the necessary precautions. Holding on to the sides of the bath, wondering if he was going to faint. If he did, then tomorrow his dead body would be found lying on the floor of this bathroom, for surely the powers of darkness would not spurn an opportunity to take their revenge on a totally defenceless enemy of Sabat's calibre.

Gratefully he slid into the warm water, lying full length, still trying to fight. Quentin was silent and that was what worried him most. Was there no further need for taunting? Was he so defenceless that they could come for him any time they chose?

He fought against the desire to sleep. The warm water would refresh him, revitalise him, help him to prepare himself mentally for the night which lay ahead. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Every second was vital to him; every minute he grew stronger. Why had they not come for him when they had the chance?

Suddenly a shrill noise had his brain reverberating, had him jerking his eyes open and gasping aloud his despair. His worst fears were realised. Somebody was ringing the front doorbell!










CHAPTER FOUR