Guy N. Smith - Sabat 1 - The Graveyard Vultures

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PROLOGUE

SABAT HAD smelled evil in the air for the past hour; a cloying cold mustiness that was stronger than the

scent of the pine trees and belied the balmy late spring atmosphere. The silence, too, was noticeable. The

absence of birdsong and the soughing of the mountain breeze seemed to have lapsed into a calm where

not even a leaf rustled. As though the world held its breath and waited.

The tall man in the dark, travel-stained and crumpled suit shrugged off the uneasiness he felt with a

deliberate effort, paused on the long steep forest path to wipe the sweat from his high brow and aquiline

features. A dry tongue flicked the fringes of his jet black moustache and his narrow, deep-sunken eyes

stared ahead into the shadows of a gathering dusk. But nothing moved. A three inch scar down his left

cheek, a ten-year-old disfigurement, was whiter than his own sallow complexion.

Tall and lithe, it was difficult to determine the age of this forest traveller; he might have been as old as

fifty, on the other hand he could have been as young as thirty-five. Agile in every movement, yet those

narrowed eyes reflected a maturity, even a hint of fear. Because for Mark Sabat this was the end of a

long trail, one that had stretched across three continents where death had lurked in town and forest alike,

but always his quarry had eluded him. Until now. This time there could be no escape for Quentin Sabat,

his elder brother.

Mark Sabat had followed this same trail earlier that morning, memorised every detail from aloft as his

astral body glided and hovered in the shape of a kestrel, whilst his physical body slept inside the hastily

chalked five pointed star within the sparsely furnished hotel bedroom in the village far below. A hawk that

missed nothing, ignoring voles which would have been easy prey. Searching, mile after exhilarating mile

until the currents of mountain air brought it high above that clearing in the trees. And it saw the dilapidated

woodcutter's shack and knew that it had found the last hiding place of the most evil man creation had

ever known, an entity reborn time and again in human form, Satan's ambassador spawned in hell to

wreak his vengeance on Earth, truly the mythical anti-Christ.

The kestrel had soared silently down to that open space amid the trees, alighted on a slender fir bough,

and watched. At first the hut had appeared to be deserted; no sound or movement from within, not a

wisp of woodsmoke out of the rusted iron stove chimney protruding from the warped roof. Sabat blinked

in the sunlight, considered changing his form to that of a hornet and alighting on the cracked and dirty

pane of glass that served as a window. But there was no hurry; a few more minutes, possibly hours, were

nothing when compared with the years of relentless pursuit.

A larch-fly honed in on a pile of kindling by the door, landed briefly, then took off again as though this

was no place in which to linger. Somewhere doves were cooing contentedly but they were a long way

away, almost out of earshot. It seemed that the birds and beasts of the forest avoided this place.

The sun rose high but there was no warmth in its rays. Sabat ruffled his brown feathers, felt the chill and

knew it was unnatural in spite of the height above sea level. Tiny eyes that missed nothing picked out the

three rectangles of newly-turned earth on the fringe of the surrounding trees. Graves \ In them would

doubtless He the remains of the man and woman and their young daughter who had ventured from the

village up into these mountains before last winter and had not returned. The coming of the snows had

hindered the search parties and the passing of time was a convenient excuse to forget. For nowadays,

none went up into the mountains for it was a terrible place to be lost after dark. So the locals said, and

Mark Sabat knew that they spoke the truth.

A movement, so sudden that the bird almost obeyed its natural instincts and took to the wing in sudden

fright. It stiffened like some taxidermist's exhibit, saw the ill-fitting door being scraped back; a human

form emerging.

An old man, so old that it was almost impossible to believe that he still lived, threadbare garments barely

hiding the wasted frame beneath. Hairless, the skin like ancient parchment, eyes receding into deep black

sockets, nostril cavities that bubbled thick mucus in time with the wheezing lungs. A slit of a toothless

mouth from which came grunts brought about by the sheer effort of each movement from this revolting

Methuselah.

Mark Sabat in his hawk form experienced a fleeting pang of pity that his own brother, one conceived in

the same womb as himself, should have rotted away to this! But he dispelled the feeling, replacing it

immediately with one of hate. For Quentin Sabat was no more than ten years his senior, his physical state

self-induced so that he might precipitate himself into his next life, the desire to spawn a new evil, and

throw the hunter off his trail. A desperate measure, indeed, or was there a more insidious motive for this

premature senility?

The old man picked up an axe with difficulty, swung it weakly at a block of wood and urinated down a

skeletal leg with the effort. The log split, fell into two halves and he spat out a glob of pink-tinged spittle,

rested on the shaft of his axe, cursing profanely in a mixture of German and French.

Then the kestrel was airborne, winging its way swiftly and silently over the treetops, a headlong flight that

took it back to the slumbering human form within the pentagram stirring it into wakefulness, a naked form

that stretched and yawned and knew that its search was over.

Now Mark Sabat was back, treading the track which he had committed to memory, knowing that this

time he must come in his own form for his astral body was powerless to bring about the demise of the

devil's henchman. He did not hurry, almost euphoric because the end was in sight, fearful because he

might not be strong enough. Quentin would know he was coming but he would not flee this time. He, too,

would relish the encounter now, the direct conflict of good and evil, opposing forces battling for greater

ideals than their own personal hatred of each other, something that had gone on since life began.

Fleeting memories came to plague Mark Sabat like a drowning man experiencing flashbacks of his life.

An upper-class upbringing, his future ensured by a legacy from wealthy parents, boyhood rebellion

against this planned life and in a moment of weakness, a pleasurable teenage homosexual experience

which had driven him into priesthood in the hope of cleansing his tortured mind. Then the discovery of his

own powers, the realisation that night when he had exorcised the poltergeist, followed by the doubting of

his own faith brought about by the hypocrisy of church leaders. Precipitated into yet another phase; army

life that had found him in the SAS . . . and the sheer pleasure derived from killing an enemy \ Legitimate

murder, not once but many times. A new Sabat, so ruthless and yet still in possession of those

inexplicable powers; powers that had saved his life on many occasions until a dishonourable discharge

had tumbled him back into civilian life. Embittered, all that mattered now was the destruction of Quentin,

because no one such as he had any right to exist amid Mankind.

The clearing, swamped by shadow so that Mark Sabat could only just make out the silhouette of the hut

and the towering pines. Cold and getting colder all the time. He checked his means of protection. The

herbs, the garlic, the silver crucifix and the tiny prayer book which was almost a blasphemy in the pocket

of one who delighted in killing. And the revolver, a .38 which he carried at all times, useless in a situation

such as this but a comfort in hostile places where earthly bodies might threaten him. Since those SAS

days a gun had become a part of his personality, a means of instant death combined with his unerring

marksmanship.

Then he saw Quentin on the far side of the clearing, a human shape gradually emerging as his eyes

became accustomed to the darkness, crouched by the graves. Eyes that fixed him, seemed to glow

brightly with their intensity of hate, a cornered wounded beast of the chase waiting to spring on the

hunter.

'So you have come.' The voice was not old and cracked, but smooth and cultured, mockingly defiant.

'You are stubborn, Mark. So foolish, because we could each have gone our own separate ways and

now it is too late.'

'No,' the newcomer stepped forward, gripped the tiny crucifix in the pocket of his jacket and wondered

if it would be powerful enough. 'There is not room enough for the two of us in this world, Quentin ...'

His voice tailed off and he stared in disbelief; saw the graves, the soil thrown up in a heap, their contents

dragged from the open cavities. Oh, Jesus God! Culte des mortes, as it was known in Creole, the native

tongue of Haiti - the cult of the dead . . . necromancy! He found himself stepping back in sheer revulsion.

Another tortured flash of memory, a visit some years ago to Port au Prince where he had experienced at

first hand some of the voodoo rites, houngans digging up corpses in the graveyard at night for a number

of revolting ceremonies; the dead walked and having seen it with his own eyes Mark Sabat did not

dispute it. And Quentin had been there, too, learning his trade, pandering to these witch doctors who

held the secret of the living dead.

Mark could see clearly now that his eyes had accustomed themselves to the dark. Three corpses;

peasants, a man and a woman in middle-age, the hessian sacking in which they had been buried having

rotted away to reveal their emaciated nakedness, putrid green flesh hanging in strips, the whiteness of the

bones beneath almost luminous. And their faces had expressions on them even though they were virtually

skeletal. Masks of terror fixed on he who had disturbed their final peace, arms entwined in a horrific

embrace. And the child between them, that was the worst of all; a young girl, hairless as a babe, her flesh

somehow having defied the damp cold earth and the nibbling worms and remained almost intact. Indeed,

she might still have been alive ... a movement, she lurched against the woman as though seeking parental

protection a limp hand swinging. Oh Jesus God, Sabat thought, she's still got her eyes! Orbs wide with

terror seeing him, pleading with him to save them all from this monster of darkness.

'You'll join them.' Quentin held the axe easily now, no longer struggling to lift it. 'You'll soon be one of the

walking dead, Mark. Or perhaps my Master will find other uses for your dismembered body while your

soul. . . '

'Stop Mark Sabat advanced into the clearing, the crucifix now clear of his pocket and held out at arms

length. 'Enough of these vile practices, Quentin. These people must have eternal peace . . . and you as

well!'

But Quentin stood his ground. He should have cowered before the power of the cross and the pungent

smell of herbs which emanated from the intruder. Instead he gave a hollow faugh and that was when the

younger Sabat knew . . . knew that his own loss of faith had failed him in his greatest hour of need; that

he was but a mere mortal facing up to a devil incarnate. And Quentin was fully aware of this, too! No

longer was the evil brother a helpless figure; age and decay still ravaged him hideously but his muscles

powered him with the speed and strength of one in the prime of life. The cold air hissed as the axe went

back and up, a whistling arc of instant death, its blade honed to razor sharpness. A cry left those

toothless lips that was more animal than human, reverberating in the still atmosphere, the mountains all

around starting to take up the echoes.

Sabat fought against shock and horror which were threatening to petrify him into an easy target. A

sideways leap just as the blade came down, hearing it strike the rocky ground amid a shower of sparks.

Whirling, flinging the crucifix with desperation, seeing it hit his adversary full in the chest. But Quentin only

swivelled round, a horrific sneer on his aged features. 'The cross is powerless without you, Mark. Not

even a symbol, just a lump of meaningless metal.'

Panicking now, a Christian in a roman lion pit, knowing that his agility can only postpone the inevitable

mauling.

Mental torture added to bursting lungs and weakening muscles. Mark Sabat hurled garlic bulbs and saw

them bounce off his brother and roll away. Quentin followed him, the axe poised effortlessly, awaiting the

death blow. It was crazy that such a decrepit body could move so swiftly, the brain within the shrunken

bald skull tuned perfectly to outwit its retreating foe.

Suddenly Mark Sabat was airborne and falling, a wave of vertigo sweeping through him, a sensation akin

to having stepped off a block of high-rise flats into a black nothingness. Then a jerk checked him. He

was lying on his back staring up at an oblong that was lighter than the darkness all around; twinkling

pinpoints which he recognised as stars. It took him some seconds to realise what had happened and then

it all came to him; the musty damp smell of soil which showered down on him from the narrow, sharp

sides of the grave into which he had fallen, sharp slivers of rock gouging his back.

A familiar silhouette above him obliterated the starlight. Quentin. Old or young, it was the Quentin he had

hunted from Haiti to Bavaria, axe poised for the final blow, savouring this moment of fratricide. And it

was at that instant, even as he was preparing himself for death, that Mark's fingers closed over the cold

metal of the .38 in his jacket pocket. His movements were instinctive, an act of hopelessness tinged with

defiance, a condemned man spitting in the face of his executioner. A salvo of shots, so rapid that they

sounded like a single peal of cannonfire coming up out of the ground, stabbing flame that burned its way

through the material of the pocket in which the gun was fired, and gave off a stench that was a mixture of

singed cloth and cordite. And bullets thudding into a human body with a noise like catapult slugs striking

wet cardboard.

Quentin was thrown back up to his full height even as he started to bring the axe down, the hail of slugs

ploughing up his body, churning a furrow that began in his groin and ended with a savage gash across his

throat, as though a ferocious wild beast had savaged him. His scream of anger was drowned by the

blood gushing from the severed jugular vein, the agony arching his back so that his bowed spine

threatened to snap. One suspended second when he tottered on the narrow brink that divides the chasms

of life and death, his own death-wish suddenly expedited yet instinctively clinging to the life he had

known, reluctant to relinquish it. Tottering, swaying.

Mark's finger checked in the trigger. He heard the axe thud harmlessly on the ground, saw Quentin

coming at him, airborne, arms flailing like some ungainly prehistoric bird attempting to take flight, spouting

warm, thick blood.

Mark Sabat felt the rush of air, covered his head with his arms and braced himself. A sickening impact,

smothered by the still kicking body of his brother, feeling and tasting warm blood on his face.

And the younger Sabat was fighting for his life again. Somehow he managed to push the other off him,

struggled up so that they were wedged side-by-side in the deep, narrow grave. Only then did he open his

eyes, and even the darkness failed to hide the awfulness of it all. Quentin's face was only inches from his

own, a grotesque countenance that showered him with bloodied curses, feeble fingers clutching at him,

broken filthy nails scraping his flesh. Mark heard the words clearly although it must have been impossible

for the other to speak. ' You fool! Idle and yet I shall live again. It is you who will moulder in this grave,

Mark!'

Somehow Mark Sabat managed to extricate himself from those death clutches, vomiting as he did so and

trying not to breathe in the foul stench of putrefaction and death. Dimly he was aware that he still held the

revolver and this time there was a deliberation in the way he brought the barrel to bear on his brother's

forehead, almost a regret in the way he applied pressure to the hair trigger like a grieving jockey about to

despatch his favourite but wounded mount. The report was deafening in the confined space, the stab of

flame lighting up the scene vividly and implanting it indelibly on Sabat's brain.

In that terrible lingering second he saw the other man's skull split like a cracked egg, grey yolk showering

up the earthy walls and stringing back in tentacles which adhered to his clothing. One last curse from that

cavity of a mouth before it was swamped by a tidal wave of crimson fluid.

Sabat pulled the trigger again but the hammer fell on an empty shell. He scrambled up, felt his feet

squelching on the soft body beneath him, somehow secured a grip on the top of the grave and pulled

himself up amid an avalanche of soil and stones. Then he lay there on the ground, gulping in great lungfuls

of freezing air and trying not to look at the three puppet-like corpses who sat closely by as though

watching him, their expressions seeming to have changed to one of pleading; a mute request to be

returned to their graves.

And Sabat knew that he would have to re-bury them.

Dawn was turning the eastern sky a pale grey by the time he had finished. Every muscle and nerve in his

lean body raged its protest as he finally flung down the broken spade which he had found behind the hut

and stared at the three fresh mounds of earth. The man and woman now occupied a single grave, the

child a smaller one, and in the deep one lay Quentin. Six feet of earth and rock covered the most evil man

the world had ever known. Yet Sabat was uneasy, now glancing about him. It seemed colder than ever in

spite of his exertions. Almost as though night was coming back to cast its mantle over this bloodied

clearing and hide the shame of a once noble family.

He turned away, tried to hurry, then pulled up, cringing, not daring to look back. A voice, a whisper on

the early morning breeze, yet so familiar.

'Idle and yet I shall live again, ft is you who will moulder in this grave, Mark'

Sabat's lips moved in a hoarse answering croak.

'No! You're dead. I killed you.'

A laugh answered him, a shrill peal that might have been the wind freshening and rusliing through the

leaves, howling down from the mountain passes above. But there was no wind.

•Running, his limbs now responding to the desperation that whipped him. Stumbling. Falling and picking

himself up, clothing torn, grazed hands beginning to bleed. On down that narrow track, daylight coming

quickly now. And behind him the laughter becoming fainter and fainter.

The hotel lobby was deserted as he entered, pulling himself up the narrow flight of stairs, exhaustion

threatening to close in on him at any second. Somehow he made it to his room, slammed the door

gratefully behind him and leaned against it. He saw the rolled up carpet, the pentagram chalked on the

bare boards. Everything as he had left it... Oh, merciful God, no!

The silver chalice lay on its side, dented as though some heavy object had knocked it over and crushed

it. A shaft of early morning sunlight streaming in through the small latticed window glinted on the buckled

shiny metal, reflecting a dazzling print that had tarnished where it had struck - a cloven hoof mark \

Sabat's horrified gaze followed the damp trail left by the spilled water, a meandering dried-up

watercourse on a parched landscape that crossed the chalk marks, broke the continuous lines that had

formed a complete star. The ultimate bastion had been breached!

'I shall live on.'

Whirling, recognising Quentin's voice, for one awful moment expecting to see his brother there in the

room; maybe as the aged woodcutter, more likely in another form. But there was no body. Just the

voice.

It was then that the full, awful realisation hit Mark Sabat. He heard the maniacal laughter again and this

time knew from whence it came ... from within himself!

He rushed to the cracked and dusty wall mirror, stared at his reflection. No outward change except

exhaustion stamped on his aquiline features, dirt-grimed, clothing dishevelled.

'You fiend!' he hissed. 'You foul monster, Quentin. I have killed you, sought to destroy you for the good

of Mankind. But instead your soul has possessed me. But not completely. D'you hear me, Quentin, not

completely. For I still have my own soul. A man with two souls, like Petraux, the French sorcerer.'

'And what happened to Petraux?' A mocking question asked within his own mind, taunting.

'He died . . . and rose again in another life,' Sabat muttered as he recalled the legend, the story of how

Petraux had fought a battle within himself and in the end took his own life so that when he was born again

the evil which had triumphed over him lived on. 'But it shall not happen to me, Quentin. You and I have

fought and hated for too long, in bygone lives, and still I live. I must take you with me where-ever I go,

but it will not be easy for you because I shall fight you all the way. The black powers may have an enemy

within my camp now, but I also have one within theirs. And maybe one day I shall destroy you totally.'

This time there was no answering jibe, just a silence that was disturbed by the rattle of crockery

somewhere down below as the hotel kitchen prepared for the start of another day.

Shoulders slumped, eyes already beginning to close with fatigue, Sabat lurched towards the bed which

stood in the centre of the pentagram. His dragging feet caught the chalice, and sent it rolling until it struck

the skirting board with a metallic clang. Fully dressed he flung himself on to the bed, felt sleep swamping

him like an incoming tide, the relentless rollers sweeping him along.

And he dreamed; a dream in which his astral body went forth with Quentin at his side. Not the Quentin

he had fought 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 discomfort, 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 outcome 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 come 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 Commissioners 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

become 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 commanding 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 becoming 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 orders.

She was seized, gagged with her own underwear, her wrists bound fast with a pair of tights. Wide-eyed

she edged as far as she could from the cold, stiff girl who lay beside her, those dead eyes having been

prised open so that Sylvia stared sightlessly up at the moon directly above.

'Now we can begin.' Horace held his arms aloft, noting with no small degree of satisfaction the way in

which his followers flung themselves prostrate. His naked body glowed with a fiery warmth in spite of the

fact that the temperature seemed to have dropped considerably during the last few minutes. The moon

was darkening, a fleeting bank of cloud possibly. His gaze rested on the beautiful corpse, now a pale

silhouette, her details obscured and flicked on to Sheila who had ceased to struggle. His arousement was

almost painful but he knew he must wait until the Master had claimed this sensual human offering before

he took his own pleasure.

Dark now, so dark that it was impossible even to make out the outlines of those around him. Still

muttering, incoherently because at times like these everybody was afraid. Closing his eyes because he did

not want to see, feeling the atmosphere cold and alive with a sensation akin to that of an electric storm.

Hearing the fearful babblings of his followers. Sheila struggling with her bonds, shuddering and gasping as

though she was orgasming...

Then the smell, a putrid stench that had the bile rising up into Horace's throat; an odour that was familiar

and all the more frightening because he recognised it.

Like the stench of a foul stable that had not been cleaned out for centuries, rancid with urine, excreta and

animal sweat. Horace clasped his hands to his ears in an attempt to shut out the pounding of hooves and

the terrified human screams.

Sabat had not liked Bishop Wentnor even in the days of his own priesthood when the bishop had been a

mere canon. Overweight, florid-faced (there were rumours that he drank heavily), all combining to give a

supercilious attitude, a man who did not tolerate any disagreement with his own opinions. A rebel in his

own way, Wentnor had gambled on some unconventional political views, hoping that if the right party

won the next election he would receive the favours due to him for his loyalty. The gamble had paid off

and he had become a bishop. In his own way he was as ruthless as Sabat was.

And Wentnor made no secret of his dislike for Sabat. One who has shown disloyalty to the Church

should have been defrocked. Unfortunately it was a case of once a priest always a priest. The Dean and

Chapter remembered Sabat's powers of exorcism and had advocated calling him in once the police had

hinted that there was more to the desecration' of these graves in St Adrian's churchyard and the

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PROLOGUESABATHADsmelledevilintheairforthepasthour;acloyingcoldmustinessthatwasstrongerthanthescentofthepinetreesandbeliedthebalmylatespringatmosphere.Thesilence,too,wasnoticeable.Theabsenceofbirdsongandthesoughingofthemountainbreezeseemedtohavelapsedintoacalmwherenotevenaleafrustled.Asthoughtheworld...

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Guy N. Smith - Sabat 1 - The Graveyard Vultures

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