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o work again； draining his muscles but the 。38 came up swiftly； instinctive snap…shooting that blitzed a hail of lead on whatever it was that came towards him。 Oh God； not even Sabat could create anything like that！
The shape was human； a lumbering silhouette that resembled Royston Spode yet the features could only have e from the depths of Hades； a misshapen skull that had had flesh clumsily adhered to it as though in a blasphemous attempt to create Man。 Bloated eyes too large for the narrow sockets； a hooked nose； the nostrils clogged with mucus； a mouth that was smeared redly as though it was a ghoul that had recently feasted on raw flesh。 The bullets had chipped the head； cut grooves across the cheeks and jawbone before ricochetting harmlessly away。 And now it was determined to vent its fury on Sabat！
Seconds that might have been an eternity； and in that time Sabat recognised his attacker； realised the full implications of what had happened during those nightmarish minutes of carnage。 Spode's body it was； on which some horrific super…natural transplant had taken place； the resurrected features of William Gardiner festooned on to Royston's own obesity； a blending of body and soul that had somehow gone wrong because of the false sacrifice。 And Spode knew； knew that partial success was indeed miserable failure and Sabat would pay the penalty for what had happened！
Spode was invincible to mortal attack； Sabat might just as well have wasted his shells on that skeleton that had lain there earlier。 Slow measured steps； a wrestler closing in on an inferior opponent； knowing full well that he can crush the life out of him but preferring to savour the finale。
Sabat closed his eyes； tried to pray 。 。 。 struggled to find the right words； remembered just one line。 'Lord； beat down Satan quickly！'
Spode checked but only momentarily； as though another bullet had glanced off him； an annoyance but nothing serious。 Sabat stepped back another pace； felt the roughness of the wall gouge his shoulder blades。 He closed his eyes。 This； then was the end。 Finis。 His senses swam； the paralysis seemed to be ing back； a dull creeping numbness preparing him for death。 He didn't mind dying； it was what happened afterwards that worried him。 Even Quentin was silent； his brother's soul succumbing to the presence of a terrible evil。
Sabat could smell this thing that might have been Spode； a lingering stench of uncleansed stables； rank foul breath ing in icy blasts。 Something touched his arm； had him shuddering and turning his head； yelling 'Get it over。 Kill me； finish me！'
Even as he awaited death in some horribly agonising manner； a thud jerked him out of his resignation to the end； a noise such as Spode had made when he hacked mercilessly at the body he believed to be Sabat's； a tearing； cutting sound like a knife blade being forced to the limit of its sharpness； then brute force taking over。 A scream that no human vocal chords were capable of making； a screeching and cursing in a tongue which Sabat did not understand。
Sabat's eyes were open。 This could not be happening； it was some cruel figment of fantasy； his astral torturing him during that brief period when life slipped into death； a taunting hope that would be dashed with the ing of oblivion。
Spode was tottering； floundering； a drowning man panicking。 Those vile features were unrecognisable in an expression of unbelievable agony； lips moving soundlessly now； mute curses； falling。 He hit the floor； heaving as he struggled for breath； a grotesque fish that found itself grounded； its death struggles growing weaker by the second； lying there； eyes that dimmed； staring hatefully up at Sabat； moving on to 。。。 Alison！
The West Indian girl stood there； eyes closed as though she could not bring herself to look upon this creature who had once been her master； the bloody sacrificial knife slipping slowly from her fingers and clattering on the stones。 Her lips were moving； Sabat had to strain his ears to catch the words uttered in Creole。 'Die； fiend of a false god for this is still Damballah's day and I am his disciple！'
Spode； or whatever it was that controlled that terrible body； was dead。 Or rather； Sabat decided； the force which had motivated him had been vanquished； sent back whence it had e； a defeated entity returned to the Petro gods。
'I。。。 you 。。。〃 Sabat could no more easily find the words to thank Alison than when he had sought for a prayer of exorcism； a defence against psychic attack； a few moments ago。
'I am a follower of Damballah。' She regarded him steadily and he noted a deep sadness in her eyes。 'For five years I have been enslaved by this fiend； forced to pay homage to the Petro gods but I kept faith for I knew that one day the Rada gods would free me。 I knew the moment you arrived at the vicarage that you had been sent for this purpose even if you did not know it yourself。 I had no choice other than to give you that drugged coffee。 Had I refused or tried to trick him； my fate would have been that of Miranda's。'
Sabat glanced about him。 A scene of carnage； not a single groan or twitching limb among the strewn bodies； staring eyes reflecting brains that had been blasted into nothingness； himself and Alison the only survivors。 It was that war in the arid wastelands again； victory today； defeat tomorrow。 That was how it would go on； he must live for the present。
Gardiner's skeleton was no more； a heap of crushed bones as though the foot of some mighty prehistoric monster had stamped on it。 The Evil One had e and gone； and afterwards the Rada gods had destroyed the malignant force with a cunning psychic counter…attack。
'You cannot stay here；' Alison said。 'Damballah's day is drawing to a close。 1 shall be powerless then and possibly Baron Cimeterre will rule this place。 Go now； while you still can！'
'Not without you。'
'I cannot e。 Please do not try to make me。'
Sabat made as if to argue； shook his head sadly。 Alas； she spoke the truth。 Damballah； too； sometimes had to make a sacrifice in order to achieve his purpose。 It was useless trying to dissuade Alison from staying； it would have been dangerous for both of them had he removed her by force。 For surely then the Rada gods would have exacted their vengeance on himself just as they had on Royston Spode。
'Please go； Sabat。'
He nodded； thought he detected a mistiness in those eyes。
'All right。'
Yet still he hesitated； standing there scrutinising her but he felt no sense of arousement； only admiration for one so courageous； one so beautiful。 He was already mentally adding her name to the list of heroines whom mankind had known； those who had willingly lain down their lives for others。
There isn't much time left； Sabat。 Soon it will be midnight and Wednesday will have gone； and then everything I have strived for will have been in vain。 And we will both die just the same。'
He nodded； did not trust himself to speak。 There was nothing more to be said； they both knew that this was merely another phase of that unending battle。 Tomorrow it would begin all over again。 He turned； began to walk slowly away； and did not look back。
Sabat had barely got fifty yards； had almost left the old graveyard and its wilderness behind when he felt the ground beneath him start to shudder。 A faint tremor at first like the passing of a heavy lorry along the road； escalating into a vibration that every nerve in his body picked up； an electric massager on full volume。 The ground heaved； he clutched at a sapling to steady himself； felt its roots move； the slender trunk suddenly at an angle。 He clung to it； still stark naked； holding the empty revolver in one hand； expecting the earth to open up at any second； to pitch him down into that cavernous dark void that had no bottom； drifting in the black beyond forever； the hell of the Petro gods where Quentin would be free to inflict everlasting torment upon him。
He closed his eyes； did not even pray。 Somewhere below he felt rather than heard the ru