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

CHAPTER ONE



THE GUILLOTINE; brutal instantaneous bloody death, a hellish instrument of
execution. It dominated the white-tiled room, a. metallic structure that
gleamed evilly in the stark fluorescent light.

Louis Nevillon was calm as his guards allowed him a few seconds to savour his
fate. They were gloating, he could read it in their smug, supposedly
impassive, expressions. Even the priest. Tete-de-chien! The executioner was
masked, a custom that went back centuries, but there was a gleam in the pale
blue eyes that stared out of the cloth slits that was unmistakable. It was
Gallon, of course. Who else? Nobody had ever seen his face, at least none of
his victims. Just those cold orbs, enjoying every second; not hurrying because
it was all over in a second and what were an extra few minutes to a doomed
man?

Nevillon returned his stare. His heart missed a beat; for one second he
thought the other flinched but it could have been a trick of the light. But
why should it be? These cochons were all frightened of Nevillon, even though
they had him shackled, his head as good as on the block. Even now they feared
that he might strike them dead with his inexplicable, terrible magic. The
fifteenth century or the twentieth, it made no difference. Each and every
person has a lurking fear of the unknown. Except Nevillon, of course.

They had been scared of him throughout the ten-day trial, armed warders and
police surrounding the dock, a company of special Surete ringing the building.
The press claimed it was to keep the angry crowds back, to stop them from
breaking in with their own brand of justice.

Nevillon had sensed clammy hands tightening over revolver butts each time he
had shifted position, eyes averted every time he had looked around the crowded
court room. Even the judge flinched, licking his dry lips continually, snapped
irritably at the witness for the prosecution for not speaking up. The little
plump man had blanched, swallowed, continued his evidence in a loud hoarse
whisper, his gaze averted so that his eyes did not meet Nevillon's.

Nevillon had never doubted that they would find him guilty. He had considered
a plea, spurned the advice of his counsel. Fourteen charges of murder, nine of
mutilation. They could only guillotine you once.

By the fifth day of the trial he was refusing to answer questions, silent
contempt that was making the jury uneasy. Even now they had reached their
decision, but when the time came it would need courage to voice it. Because
Louis Nevillon was no ordinary murderer. Had he not already told them that he
was a descendant of Silvain Nevillon who was burned for witchcraft at Orleans
in 1614. Descendant? He was more than that. A reincarnation! Silvain himself
reborn, a line of evil that even the guillotine could not destroy. But these
fools would not understand that.