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d 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 in those far…off days was doing things to him 。。。
Sabat tried to check the feeling； tried to think of other things； but it was futile。 His pulses raced and his fevered body demanded satisfaction； ordered him to pay homage to the memory of one who had once loved him with a sadistic viciousness。
Somehow his sweaty fingers found the strength to do what his erection was screaming out for。 He tensed； shuddered； cast off the feeling of guilt and felt it replaced by one of unbelievable euphoria。 To hell with everybody！ Watch me if you want to； you bastards； because I like you watching me。
His nakedness was bathed in sweat； every nerve afive and responding。 He wasn't ill after all； just experiencing pent…up frustration because he hadn't had a woman for a long time now。 And in the darkened room they were willing him to do the next best thing； urging him to confess his past secret pleasures。
Sabat's voice seemed to echo in the darkness to the acpaniment of hollow whispered laughter which might have been Catriona's。 Or Vince Lealan's。 Or Royston Spode's。
Or Quentin's！
Sabat told them everything they wanted to hear。 They knew it already； so it didn't matter。 They just wanted to listen to it ing from his own lips。 He told them of that occasion in his adolescence when he had let another of his own sex do what he'd wanted to do。 How he had enjoyed it。 He'd felt guilty afterwards because convention had dominated； driven him in a fit of cowardice to seek refuge in priesthood。 Sabat cringed at the memory； blasphemed。 The SAS had been his salvation； taught him the real pleasures of life 。。。 taught him how to kill amongst other things。
Have you ever taken human life； Sabat？
You know fucking well I have。 That terrorist。。。 Sabat winced； heard the deafening reports of his own pistol in the confined space； the screams of his victim as he writhed like a helpless landed fish； arms and legs shattered； pleading for death and being denied it。 Laughter again 。。。 Sabat's。
Women。 Jealous naked bodies materialising out of the past； fighting amongst themselves； clamouring for him； displaying themselves lewdly。 Fuck me； Sabat； the way you used to。 Fingers that were not his own taking over； speeding up； a million sensations blending into one mind…blowing explosion of mind and body。
Sabat was convulsing； floating in a void； but they wouldn't let up on him； a forest of frenzied arms and legs that grabbed and pulled and squeezed him until he was crying out for them to stop。 The laughter was louder now； hurting his throbbing head。 He tore his hands free； pressed them to his ears but he could not shut out the noise。 You're too weak to resist； Sabat。
He was back on the bed in a splayed heap； shivering uncontrollably； groping blindly for the bedclothes but they were gone。 So cold； so frightening Cringing。 There's nothing to be afraid of。 You're not Mark Sabat…you 're Quentin。 One of us！
The dreaded reversal； one soul overing anot