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。 We have seen your treachery and we dare do no more than free you from that which held you and remind you of your vow。 But you cannot leave this place until the man called Spode is destroyed along with the evil in him。 The exit is sealed to you by Damballah until that has e about and only then will you beable to leave this tomb of the dead'
Sabat knew that the Lord of the Crossroads spoke the truth； that Damballah had trapped him here； cunningly enforcing his bargain； ensuring that a devastating blow was struck against the arch rivals of the Rada gods； suspicious that once released from his paralysis Sabat might flee in order to save himself。
'I cannot delay here。' The other stepped back into the shadows； a silhouette once more。 'It is up to you now； Sabat。 The Rada gods wish you well。'
Then Sabat was alone； glancing around the evil crypt； his only panions two mutilated corpses and a malignant blood…stained skeleton。 So cold； whispering voices that could have been in his own mind。 He shivered； glanced in the direction of the passage with its slimy damp walls that led out of here up into the dusk of an open world。 Yet he knew that escape was denied him； would not even have wasted time attempting it even had he wished to flee。 He had to stay； not only because there was a battle to be fought but because there was a score to settle。 Cold fury was beginning to dominate him again； that killing mood which he had first discovered in the SAS； an insatiable lust for blood and death。
'You won't win this time； Mark Sabat。 This is the end for you！' Quentin's mocking tones ing at him out of the darkness。
But Sabat only laughed； low and mirthless。 He had cast off the mantle of despair and once again had bee the fighting machine of old； the nemesis of evil forces。 There was no time to be lost。
He worked quickly； his brain on full throttle； seeing the situation as it was and knowing what he must do。 The voices around him had sunk to almost inaudible whispers and he ignored them for they could not harm him at the moment； they too； must wait for Royston Spode's final act of depravity before they were powerful enough to attack。 Sabat dropped to his knees； and began to strip Andy Drew's body of its ragged bloodsoaked clothing； tearing the denim off in congealed strips； baring the mutilated flesh。 Christ； Spode's bestiality knew no bounds； the stomach spilled out of the base of the inverted cross wound and Sabat was forced to cram it back with his fingers； human offal that was still warm to the touch。 Revolting； but this corpse had a definite role to play in his plans。
Next； his own clothing； peeling off jacket and trousers； carefully removing the 。38 from the pocket before he began the awkward task of transferring them to the naked corpse； several sizes too large but he overcame this by folding the surplus material beneath the body where it would not show。 Then he laid it out carefully； with all the care that an under…takers's assistant in a morgue might take； positioning it in the same place where he himself had lain inert only a short time before。 Andy Drew in death had taken the place of Sabat。
He stood back； surveying the result of his efforts with a critical eye。 Congealed and smeared blood masked the features； rendered them unrecognisable except by a very close scrutiny； and Spode and his coven were unlikely to do that； they would be only too eager to begin their sacrifice。
Sabat shivered in his nakedness； picked up the 。38 and glanced at it lovingly in the flickering candlelight。 It was as though it was a part of himself； flooding him with fleeting memories； one in particular he liked to savour； a terrorist he'd cornered in a disused farmhouse。 Sabat's orders had been to bring him in dead or alive but he had decided not to burden the taxpayer with maintaining this kind of scum for the next twenty years。 The first shot had smashed the other's gun arm。 The left one went up in a token of surrender but it was splintered at the elbow。 Back against the wall； the killer had screamed for mercy； carried on screaming as he writhed on the ground with both kneecaps shattered； Sabat had taken a bead on the head； but just as his forefinger curled around the trigger he'd shifted his aim to a stomach shot。 Just one bullet … the man had taken an hour to die and his final agonised cries had been sweet music to Sabat's ears； a symphony of justice the way it should be。 He could hear him now； pleading； crying。 And he wondered if the Reverend Royston Spode would beg for mercy at the end！
He looked around for a suitable hiding place； found a niche in the wall from which the altar was clearly visible and squeezed himself into it； sharp stones grazing his back as he did so。 The dried blood on his body was camouflage enough； he was almost invisible in the shadows。
All he had to do now was to wait and for a man of action that was the worst part。 He fondled the 。38 again； felt the intense cold； wondered if it was all really happening or whether he was back in his astral looking down on his own bloodstained； dark…clad body lying before Satan's shrine。
The voices abated； came back again； Quentin snarling like a wild beast； a caged black soul frustrated by its imprisonment。 And other noises； the steady drip of water somewhere as it trickled down the stone walls and formed a pool； tiny scurrying feet and pairs of red rodent eyes regarding this intruder into their domain with hostile glares。 For even the rats in this place were malevolent。 Satanic vermin sensing that soon there might be fresh bones to gnaw； Sabat could hear one masticating close by； remembered Miranda's corpse in the corner and almost went to her defence。 But it mattered not； the dead were dead； their bodies beyond recall。 It was the living； and those who were to die this night； that concerned him。
Suddenly he stiffened； his ears picking up another sound； far off voices that were neither within himself nor the murmurings of the dark forces lurking in the shadows。 A tuneless chorus； an intonation gathering in volume； the echoes picking it up。 Animal…like snarlings that sounded vaguely human if one listened carefully enough。
His breathing was shallow； almost non…existent； the 。38 was held loosely； its snub barrel pointing in the direction of the altar。
This was it； they were ing！
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
DARKNESS HAD fallen when Spode led his followers back out of the church。 No longer were they the sullen； fearful congregation to whom he had served a cannibalistic munion。 They cursed； jostled behind him in a straggling single file； their features devilish masks of lust； wild beasts roaring for the kill。
Royston Spode smiled wanly at the girl by his side。 Only Alison seemed her usual stoic self。 The rest of them were savages； as primitive as the wild tribes in the heart of darkest Africa where voodoo had first begun。 He had made them this way； charged their personalities in a matter of minutes by giving them Satan's cup to drink from once their grisly First Supper was over； the symbolic antithesis of the holy grail； fill