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ation。 'Until then nobody must enter this chamber。' He locked the door behind them。
The inquiry into the disappearance of Louis Nevillon's corpse was conducted jointly by the prison authorities and the Surete。 Everybody was interrogated from the governor down to the most junior warder； but in the end no conclusion was reached…except by four men who kept their opinions to themselves。 Monsieur Gallon； the infamous French executioner； the padre； and the two warders who had been in attendance at Nevillon's death。 They remembered the murderer's final words as his head lay on the block。
'On the third day I shall rise again。 I shall live and you will fear my ingr
The body of the Beast of France had vanished into thin air； Louis Nevillon had spoken the truth。
He would live again。
CHAPTER TWO
SABAT'S BROW furrowed into a worried frown。 He shook his head slowly； stroked a finger down the long scar on his left cheek； a memento from his SAS days that still seemed to smart on odd occasions。 His dark eyes narrowed； his lips pressed into a thin bloodless line。 Tall yet muscular beneath his dark suit； he gave the impression of a coiled spring； latent power that was not to be trifled with。
He read through the short； almost insignificant； passage at the foot of an inside page of the Telegraph a second time。 EXECUTED MAN'S BODY DISAPPEARS
The corpse of Louis Nevillon； guillotined in Paris last week for mass murder； is reported to have disappeared from the execution chamber。 A Surete spokesman declined to ment on it。
Which meant that the French authorities were baffled； they rarely mented on failures。 The newspaper fell from Sabat's fingers and he stared vacantly out of the window； did not see the dense shrubberies which gave his WestHampstead house its seclusion； saw only in his mind a grey…haired man with aristocratic features； a hint of nobility that failed to hide the evil in those close…set eyes and narrow mouth。 Sabat recalled every detail； indelibly imprinted on his brain from the one occasion when he had met Nevillon。 Maybe the intervening years had changed the Frenchman physically； a few lines here and there； the grey slowly turning to white； but the man himself would not alter。 A Grand Master of the Left Hand Path。 The Beast of France。
Sabat sighed。 Such powerful evil could not be wiped out by the guillotine。 In the same way that bullets had been unable to destroy Sabat's own brother； Quentin； that day when Mark Sabat had attempted to blast him into oblivion during their final encounter down in that mountain grave。* The dead man's soul had found another body… his own！ And Sabat had harboured Quentin's evil ever since； struggled to overe it but it had only been subdued； his own strength and faith keeping it under control。 One momentary flash of weakness on his own part and it rose up again like a deadly snake； spread its poison through him； dominated his every thought and action。 Quentin still lived。 Even now； he could hear that nasal； mocking laughter in the recesses of his own brain； whispered taunting words： 'They didn't kill Louis Nevillon； He lives again'
He cleared his throat； tried to get rid of the rasping soreness that began in his tonsils and seemed to travel right down to his lungs。 He shivered； felt suddenly cold； his flesh goosepimpling。 Damn it； he'd got a chill。 Even the fittest of men； and Sabat had looked after his body since his ignominious discharge from the SAS； picked up the odd infection。 Maybe he would be better off in bed。 It was like giving in； surrendering。 Quentin's laughter again； sensing any weakness； mental or physical； a lurking inner deadly enemy。
Sabat's head was aching。 It had been feeling muzzy ever since he had got up and now his temples were throbbing as though an invisible goblin was pounding away at them with a tiny hammer。 His eyes smarted and there was a dry； sour taste in his mouth。 Bed wis definitely the best place。
It was an effort to climb the stairs； dragging himself up a step at a time； his sweaty hands slipping on the polished oak rail。 A stiff whisky and a couple of aspirins； he would be OK in the morning。
He shivered uncontrollably as his naked flesh came into contact with the sheets； cooling his body temperature fast and making him curl himself up into a ball in an attempt to generate heat。 The whisky had burned his throat； he'd had difficulty getting those aspirin tablets down。 He felt as though he might vomit and wondered if he was capable of making it across to the bathroom。
He closed his eyes； saw Louis Nevillon's face again； smirking。 A voice somewhere； he couldn't make out the words but he knew it was Quentin's。 Nobody was bothering much about the murderer's missing decapitated body except a few red…faced prison officials whose security system was being criticised。 They didn't realise； they couldn't be expected to。 Somebody had to 。。。
What the hell's it got to do with you； Sabat？ Nothing。 It's none of my business。 Trying to find a reason not to do anything about it。 I'm not well 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 e upstairs and that seemed only a matter of minutes ago。 He attempted to identify the puterised 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