"Smith, Guy N - Sabat 01 - The Graveyard Vultures" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

'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 exhumation of corpses than just plain vandalism. Wentnor had refused adamantly but within a week he had received a directive from the Archbishop that Sabat was to be contacted. Wentnor fumed secretly but he had no choice.

Nevertheless, on principle, the bishop kept Sabat waiting almost an hour at the palace. Damn the feller, he'd got to be put in his place; he'd turned his back on God and such an act did not command the respect of those in holy office.

'Ah, Sabat,' Wentnor smiled facially as he seated himself behind his huge ornate desk in his plush study. No apologies, make the young upstart feel uncomfortable. 'I don't need to go into a lot of details on this business, do I? You've read the papers, doubtless.'

'I'd rather you did.' Sabat's dark eyes never flinched, gave nothing away. 'The press have a habit of exaggerating these things. I'd rather have the facts first hand. From you, Bishop.'

Bishop Wentnor felt his pulses starting to race. Sabat showed not the slightest trace of subservience. Nor respect.

'Very well then, Sabat.' Curt now, glancing at the dark-haired man sitting opposite him but finding himself dropping his gaze and staring up at the carved ceiling above, fingertips pressed together, a posture he adopted in the cathedral. It gave one a bearing of holiness, he thought, at least in the eyes of the average conventional congregation. 'At first it was the usual vandalism. A word sprayed on the church doors .. . '

'What word?'

'I... really, Sabat, that is of no consequence. Suffice to say that it was an obscene one.'

'The word, Bishop. I must collate every minute detail, every fact known however irrelevant it may appear if I am to conduct a proper investigation prior to an exorcism.'

Wentnor's complexion reddened a deeper hue. He stole a glance at Sabat, but found himself looking quickly away again. Damn him, he just wants to make me say that. 'All right then, Sabat. It was F U C K.' Spell it out, it sounds better that way.

Sabat nodded but gave no hint of the inner satisfaction he felt. 'Then the graves started being opened?'

'That's right. One or two of the older ones were interfered with but fortunately there weren't any living relations to kick up a fuss. Until they dug up this young girl, Sylvia Adams. A tragic life cut off before it began, sweet innocence itself. . . and then to have that happen.'

'What did they do to her?'

'Indescribable and I absolutely refuse to go into details. The worst case of necromancy that it has been my lot to come into contact with. Her folks, understandably, are kicking up a terrible fuss. These vile people must have brought along an animal of some kind and mated it with the corpse. The police are under the impression that it was a goat but the only trace of its cloven hooves are on the dead girl herself \ Not a single print on the ground around the tomb.'

Sabat pursed his lips, ran his tongue along the fringe of his moustache. 'Celestina of Haiti was formally married to a goat for the purposes of voodoo. Voodoo is still as rife on the island now as it was then, Bishop. And it has spread across the world ... to places like England!'

'Surely you're not suggesting . . . '

'It is too early to suggest anything yet. I am merely stating a few facts. But please go on.'

'The police drew a blank. Certainly some of the villagers know something about what's been going on but door to door enquiries have come up with absolutely nothing. Then, within a month of this disgusting exhumation yet another grave was dug up. *