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channelled itself to the lake, the shifted air booming. It was what they
suddenly saw beneath the surface that had frozen them.
Vague, nebulous forms filled the water below, massing together, squirming
spasmodically, tendril-like appendages waving in the currents, occupying the
lake as though the content was not water but moving, liquid beings.
A waterspout erupted then swooped down, like a tentacle, curling round the two
men who clawed at the bank. It drew them into the lake and their screams
became a bubbling froth. It seemed, although it was too dark to be certain,
that other smaller tendrils of fluid pulled at them too.
The leader shuddered incredulously, then gasped when something tightened
around his own ankle. With a frightened cry, he jerked his leg clear, and
perhaps it was merely overwrought imagination that caused him to think a
watery claw had risen with his leg to plop shapeless back into the choppy
lake.
The two men were gone, he knew that. There was no helping them at all. He
scrambled up the embankment, digging toes and hands into the slimy soil,
afraid he would slide back into the water to lie among those things stirring
there. His two remaining men were following suit, scrambling away from the
foamy lake where waterspouts resembling misshapen creatures burst upwards into
the stormy night.
Waves hurled themselves at the climbing men as if to drag them back, but they
plunged their fingers into the mud, using tree roots whenever their fumbling
hands chanced upon them, grateful for every inch they could gain.
They collapsed on the grass at the top of the embankment, rolling over and
over into the bushes, putting as much distance between themselves and the
water's edge as possible. At last they settled among the trees, trembling and
panting, the rain's force tempered by the leafy canopy above them.
'For God's sake, let's away from here!' Danny recognised McGuire's voice,
distorted by terror though it was.
'No,' he said, loud enough to be heard over the storm. 'Whatever it was back
there can't harm us now.'
He was shocked, stunned by what had happened and the loss of two good men. But
Danny Shay was a determined man. An executioner who had already tortured and
killed one person to locate his intended victim.
He rose and grabbed the shoulders of his exhausted companions, hauling them to
their feet.
'Get yourselves moving,' he told them. 'The house isn't far and there's a
bastard there deservin' to die.'
42 SEPULCHRE
As in the dream, there were large, staring eyes watching him. Unnatural eyes.
Stone eyes.
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ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Halloran held his breath as pain ached through his head. He raised a leaden
hand to his forehead and held his temples, exerting soft pressure with fingers
and thumb. The ache eased only slightly. He blinked, taking in the statues, a
gathering of them, thirty at least, standing a few yards away. Observing. A
few were in groups, man, woman and child. Some were at least five foot high.
Their fixed gaze was inescapable.
Among them in a high-backed ornate chair was a figure, this of flesh and
blood, for it shifted slightly when Halloran pushed himself up onto an elbow.
The figure settled back, a formless shadow amidst the sculptures.
The floor was wet where Halloran lay, grimy water seeping through the cracks
in the flagstones. The dampness brought with it a putrid smell, a different
odour underlying that. Melting wax. The chamber was lit by hosts of black
candles, their glow soft and unsteady.
'Help him to his knees,' a voice said. It might have been Kline's except its
rasping quality reminded
Halloran of the lodgekeeper.
Hands pulled at him roughly and his mind was too dulled for him to resist. As
he knelt, something passed around his throat, and a sudden sharpness there
jerked him erect. He tried to twist away and the pressure increased. His hands
went to the cause, but there was nothing they could grip.
'Struggle and the wire will bite deeper,' the same voice warned.
Halloran couldn't see the person behind him, but he could feel whoever it was
leaning into his back. A
spiciness wafted down among the other smells.
'Youssef is master of the garotte,' came the voice again, and this time he was
sure it was Kline sitting there in the shadows, even though the tones were
roughened. 'Try to resist and you'll find out for yourself.' There was a
weariness to his words that made Kline seem very old.
When Halloran took his hands away they were smeared with his own blood.
'Let him see, Youssef. Let him see where he is.' The pressure slackened and
Halloran was able to look around, although his view was restricted. The room
was long and high-ceilinged, and the walls glinted in the candlelight as if
water was trickling through the brickwork. A solid stairway led upwards and
Halloran saw there was a passage but no door in the darkness at the top. There [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]