[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
pummelled him, feet drove into him, shattering frail bones, and screaming for
mercy the wizard of Montmartre was dragged from his stinking home by the
fear-crazed angry mob.
Sabat followed them, flitting through the night air, saw the familiar cobbled
square, brushwood and items of unwanted furniture piled high in readiness, a
chanting crowd already gathered, shrieking their wrath when they saw the
advancing column.
'Vallin the physician who stole our babies to give to Satan; bum him!'
A forest of eager hands hoisted Pierre Vallin aloft, roped him to the sapling
which was to serve as a stake, his screams of protest drowned by the
thunderous cries of a mob that had found courage at last in numbers. Flames
began to lick at the dry wood, spreading and sending up showers of sparks.
Crackling and hissing.
But Sabat was speeding away, a bat now that flitted over rooftops and across
tracts of open countryside, an astral hastening to rejoin its physical body.
Soon he came to the new Montmartre, that cobbled square again where the crowd
was made up of late-night revellers and artists who used the benches for beds
on warm nights. Yet it had changed little, and if you were perceptive enough
to notice, you would sense the growing evil in the atmosphere, a stench like
that of the charred wood of a long-dead witch fire. For Pierre Vallin had died
and lived again many times; Lilith was true to her word for she knew that she
would have need of him at the final hour. Lives that had spanned centuries and
continents were finally rejoined in that place where it had first begun.
As Sabat slipped back into his body he heard the faint sounds of Quentin's
laughter.
And outside the pentagram angry whispered voices like that of the frenzied mob
that had taken Vallin, frustrated because they could not get at Sabat, an
invisible barrier of protection keeping them at bay.
Finally, towards dawn, they gave up, melted back into the darkness and Sabat
knew that the night belonged to him.
But the real fight was only just beginning.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE WAVE of terror had already begun by the time Sabat left his hotel the next
morning. Only a hundred yards away a narrow side street was cordoned off,
gendarmes were everywhere, a body wrapped in blankets was being loaded into a
van.
Sabat watched, mingling with a crowd which had gathered as close as the police
would allow. He could not make out any details but it was all too clear. And
the midday editions of the papers carried the story . . . and seven others as
well!
He wandered away. Still he had not decided upon his next course of action.
There were a number of alternatives open to him; he could call in the Surete,
have the Lealans arrested but, like England, witchcraft counted for little in
France these days. There would only be a paltry charge and Scotland Yard was
unlikely to effect an extradition order on the part Vince Lealan had played in
Bloody Saturday. Above all it would take time and time was a commodity that
was not available. Already Lilith's 'vampires' were on a rampage of blood.
Sabat considered confronting the Lealans in broad daylight, challenging these
latest reincarnations of evil but again his efforts might prove futile. He
sighed; his only chance was to wait for nightfall, fight them when the evil
had started . . . and then the odds would be in their favour. One man against
the might of the powers of darkness!
He strolled the narrow streets around Montmartre, saw the very house which he
had visited in his astral form, felt his pulses speed up. There could be no
possible doubt that this was the place. The timbers had weathered and split in
places, door and windows had been replaced possibly several times over the
past five centuries, but apart from that it looked exactly the same as it had
on that fiery night when the frenzied witch-hunters had dragged out Pierre
Vallin and burned him in the cobbled square.
Sabat had a brief respite, a few hours of daylight in which to formulate a
plan with which to wipe out the evil that was even now spawning in a satanic
dwelling. And right now he could not think of a single worthwhile idea.
It was midday before he experienced the faintest glimmerings of a plan, one
that germinated and came to fruition with remarkable rapidity. So
breathtakingly simple that he wondered why he had not thought of it before.
He returned to his hotel bedroom, locked the door behind him, and once again
the bed was tilted up against the wall, the carpet rolled back to expose the
pentagram. A miniature altar was constructed out of the bedside table and the
suitcase, a white sheet used to drape it, a crucifix and the chalices placed
upon it. And then he prayed, not in the conventional kneeling posture but
standing upright, arms outstretched, for Sabat's philosophy was that Man was
part of God and humility was hypocrisy. Again he was the psychic mercenary
seeking the help of a more powerful force; just as in the past he had summoned
the old gods to assist him, he now sought the aid of three who had pursued
Lilith in the days when the earth was young and the mud and filth out of which
her Maker had moulded her was scarcely set.
Tranquility; the temperature of the room did not change, neither did the
atmosphere seem charged with an inexplicable power. And when he had finished,
dismantled the altar trappings and restored the room to its former state,
Sabat had no idea whether or not his plea had been heard. He would not know
for several hours, not until darkness had fallen. And by then it might be too
late!
For the remainder of the day he fasted and rested, conditioned his mind and
body to the terrible ordeal which lay ahead. His psychic training enabled him
to shut out all thoughts of the coming battle with evil and even Quentin had
lapsed into silence. Sabat was a soldier preparing for war.
It was nine o'clock when finally he left the hotel, dressed in his usual black
attire, a tiny silver crucifix in each pocket of his jacket, the .38 a
comforting weight in its holster although he recognised its shortcomings in
this type of encounter. In addition he carried two lengths of rope,
approximately a foot long, still damp from being immersed in holy water. And
suddenly he had a feeling that perhaps the odds were not weighed so heavily
against him.
The streets and the cobbled square were crowded, and from the shadows Sabat
surveyed the throng. A casual observer might have been forgiven for presuming
that this bustle of activity was a result of the fine mild evening, the crowds
typical of Montmartre, artists and would-be artists, dropouts and drug-addicts
emerging from their dens of despair to congregate here. But when you studied
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]