gns.thegraveyardvultures-第1节

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　　SABAT　HAD　smelled　evil　in　the　air　for　the　past　hour；　a　cloying　cold　mustiness　that　was　stronger　than　the　scent　of　the　pine　trees　and　belied　the　balmy　late　spring　atmosphere。　The　silence；　too；　was　noticeable。　The　absence　of　birdsong　and　the　soughing　of　the　mountain　breeze　seemed　to　have　lapsed　into　a　calm　where　not　even　a　leaf　rustled。　As　though　the　world　held　its　breath　and　waited。
　　
　　The　tall　man　in　the　dark；　travel…stained　and　crumpled　suit　shrugged　off　the　uneasiness　he　felt　with　a　deliberate　effort；　paused　on　the　long　steep　forest　path　to　wipe　the　sweat　from　his　high　brow　and　aquiline　features。　A　dry　tongue　flicked　the　fringes　of　his　jet　black　moustache　and　his　narrow；　deep…sunken　eyes　stared　ahead　into　the　shadows　of　a　gathering　dusk。　But　nothing　moved。　A　three　inch　scar　down　his　left　cheek；　a　ten…year…old　disfigurement；　was　whiter　than　his　own　sallow　plexion。
　　
　　Tall　and　lithe；　it　was　difficult　to　determine　the　age　of　this　forest　traveller；　he　might　have　been　as　old　as　fifty；　on　the　other　hand　he　could　have　been　as　young　as　thirty…five。　Agile　in　every　movement；　yet　those　narrowed　eyes　reflected　a　maturity；　even　a　hint　of　fear。　Because　for　Mark　Sabat　this　was　the　end　of　a　long　trail；　one　that　had　stretched　across　three　continents　where　death　had　lurked　in　town　and　forest　alike；　but　always　his　quarry　had　eluded　him。　Until　now。　This　time　there　could　be　no　escape　for　Quentin　Sabat；　his　elder　brother。
　　
　　Mark　Sabat　had　followed　this　same　trail　earlier　that　morning；　memorised　every　detail　from　aloft　as　his　astral　body　glided　and　hovered　in　the　shape　of　a　kestrel；　whilst　his　physical　body　slept　inside　the　hastily　chalked　five　pointed　star　within　the　sparsely　furnished　hotel　bedroom　in　the　village　far　below。　A　hawk　that　missed　nothing；　ignoring　voles　which　would　have　been　easy　prey。　Searching；　mile　after　exhilarating　mile　until　the　currents　of　mountain　air　brought　it　high　above　that　clearing　in　the　trees。　And　it　saw　the　dilapidated　woodcutter's　shack　and　knew　that　it　had　found　the　last　hiding　place　of　the　most　evil　man　creation　had　ever　known；　an　entity　reborn　time　and　again　in　human　form；　Satan's　ambassador　spawned　in　hell　to　wreak　his　vengeance　on　Earth；　truly　the　mythical　anti…Christ。
　　
　　The　kestrel　had　soared　silently　down　to　that　open　space　amid　the　trees；　alighted　on　a　slender　fir　bough；　and　watched。　At　first　the　hut　had　appeared　to　be　deserted；　no　sound　or　movement　from　within；　not　a　wisp　of　woodsmoke　out　of　the　rusted　iron　stove　chimney　protruding　from　the　warped　roof。　Sabat　blinked　in　the　sunlight；　considered　changing　his　form　to　that　of　a　hornet　and　alighting　on　the　cracked　and　dirty　pane　of　glass　that　served　as　a　window。　But　there　was　no　hurry；　a　few　more　minutes；　possibly　hours；　were　nothing　when　pared　with　the　years　of　relentless　pursuit。
　　
　　A　larch…fly　honed　in　on　a　pile　of　kindling　by　the　door；　landed　briefly；　then　took　off　again　as　though　this　was　no　place　in　which　to　linger。　Somewhere　doves　were　cooing　contentedly　but　they　were　a　long　way　away；　almost　out　of　earshot。　It　seemed　that　the　birds　and　beasts　of　the　forest　avoided　this　place。
　　
　　The　sun　rose　high　but　there　was　no　warmth　in　its　rays。　Sabat　ruffled　his　brown　feathers；　felt　the　chill　and　knew　it　was　unnatural　in　spite　of　the　height　above　sea　level。　Tiny　eyes　that　missed　nothing　picked　out　the　three　rectangles　of　newly…turned　earth　on　the　fringe　of　the　surrounding　trees。　Graves　　In　them　would　doubtless　He　the　remains　of　the　man　and　woman　and　their　young　daughter　who　had　ventured　from　the　village　up　into　these　mountains　before　last　winter　and　had　not　returned。　The　ing　of　the　snows　had　hindered　the　search　parties　and　the　passing　of　time　was　a　convenient　excuse　to　forget。　For　nowadays；　none　went　up　into　the　mountains　for　it　was　a　terrible　place　to　be　lost　after　dark。　So　the　locals　said；　and　Mark　Sabat　knew　that　they　spoke　the　truth。
　　
　　A　movement；　so　sudden　that　the　bird　almost　obeyed　its　natural　instincts　and　took　to　the　wing　in　sudden　fright。　It　stiffened　like　some　taxidermist's　exhibit；　saw　the　ill…fitting　door　being　scraped　back；　a　human　form　emerging。
　　
　　An　old　man；　so　old　that　it　was　almost　impossible　to　believe　that　he　still　lived；　threadbare　garments　barely　hiding　the　wasted　frame　beneath。　Hairless；　the　skin　like　ancient　parchment；　eyes　receding　into　deep　black　sockets；　nostril　cavities　that　bubbled　thick　mucus　in　time　with　the　wheezing　lungs。　A　slit　of　a　toothless　mouth　from　which　came　grunts　brought　about　by　the　sheer　effort　of　each　movement　from　this　revolting　Methuselah。
　　
　　Mark　Sabat　in　his　hawk　form　experienced　a　fleeting　pang　of　pity　that　his　own　brother；　one　conceived　in　the　same　womb　as　himself；　should　have　rotted　away　to　this！　But　he　dispelled　the　feeling；　replacing　it　immediately　with　one　of　hate。　For　Quentin　Sabat　was　no　more　than　ten　years　his　senior；　his　physical　state　self…induced　so　that　he　might　precipitate　himself　into　his　next　life；　the　desire　to　spawn　a　new　evil；　and　throw　the　hunter　off　his　trail。　A　desperate　measure；　indeed；　or　was　there　a　more　insidious　motive　for　this　premature　senility？
　　
　　The　old　man　picked　up　an　axe　with　difficulty；　swung　it　weakly　at　a　block　of　wood　and　urinated　down　a　skeletal　leg　with　the　effort。　The　log　split；　fell　into　two　halves　and　he　spat　out　a　glob　of　pink…tinged　spittle；　rested　on　the　shaft　of　his　axe；　cursing　profanely　in　a　mixture　of　German　and　French。
　　
　　Then　the　kestrel　was　airborne；　winging　its　way　swiftly　and　silently　over　the　treetops；　a　headlong　flight　that　took　it　back　to　the　slumbering　human　form　within　the　pentagram　stirring　it　into　wakefulness；　a　naked　form　that　stretched　and　yawned　and　knew　that　its　search　was　over。
　　
　　Now　Mark　Sabat　was　back；　treading　the　track　which　he　had　mitted　to　memory；　knowing　that　this　time　he　must　e　in　his　own　form　for　his　astral　body　was　powerless　to　bring　about　the　demise　of　the　devil's　henchman。　He　did　not　hurry；　almost　euphoric　because　the　end　was　in　sight；　fearful　because　he　might　not　be　strong　enough。　Quentin　would　know　he　was　ing　but　he　would　not　flee　this　time。　He；　too；　would　relish　the　encounter　now；　the　direct　conflict　of　good　and　evil；　opposing　forces　battling　for　greater　ideals　than　their　own　personal　hatred　of　each　other；　something　that　had　gone　on　since　life　began。
　　
　　Fleeting　memories　came　to　plague　Mark　Sabat　like　a　drowning　man　experiencing　flashbacks　of　his　life。　An　upper…class　upbringing；　his　future　ensured　by　a　legacy　from　wealthy　parents；　boyhood　rebellion　against　this　planned　life　and　in　a　moment　of　weakness；　a　pleasurable　teenage　homosexual　experience　which　had　driven　him　into　priesthood　in　the　hope　of　cleansing　his　tortured　mind。　Then　the　discovery　of　his　own　powers；　the　realisation　that　night　when　he　had　exorcised　the　poltergeist；　followed　by　the　doubting　of　his　own　faith　brought　about　by　the　hypocrisy　of　church　leaders。　Precipitated　into　yet　another　phase；　army　life　that　had　found　him　in　the　SAS　。　。　。　and　the　sheer　pleasure　derived　from　killing　an　enemy　　Legitimate　murder；　not　once　but　many　times。　A　new　Sabat；　so　ruthless　and　yet　still　in　possession　of　those　inexplicable　powers；　powers　that　had　saved　his　life　on　many　occasions　until　a　dishonourable　discharge　had　tumbled　him　back　into　civilian　life。　Embittered；　all　that　mattered　now　was　the　destruction　of　Quentin；　because　no　one　such　as　he　had　any　right　to　exist　amid　Mankind。
　　
　　The　clearing；　swamped　by　shadow　so　that　Mark　Sabat　could　only　just　make　out　the　silhouette　of　the　hut　and　the　towering　pines。　Cold　and　getting　colder　all　the　time。　He　checked　his　means　of　protection。　The　herbs；　the　garlic；　the　silver　crucifix　and　the　tiny　prayer　book　which　was　almost　a　blasphemy　in　the　pocket　of　one　who　delighted　in　killing。　And　the　revolver；　a　。38　which　he　carried　at　all　times；　useless　in　a　situation　such　as　this　but　a　fort　in　hostile　places　where　earthly　bodies　might　threaten　him。　Since　those　SAS　days　a　gun　had　bee　a　part　of　his　personality；　a　means　of　instant　death　bined　with　his　unerring　marksmanship。
　　
　　Then　he　saw　Quentin　on　the　far　side　of　the　clearing；　a　human　shape　gradually　emerging　as　his　eyes　became　accustomed　to　the　darkness；　crouched　by　the　graves。　Eyes　that　fixed　him；　seemed　to　glow　brightly　with　their　intensity　of　hate；　a　cornered　wounded　beast　of　the　chase　waiting　to　spring　on　the　hunter。
　　
　　'So　you　have　e。'　The　voice　was　not　old　and　cracked；　but　smooth　and　cultured；　mockingly　defiant。　'You　are　stubborn；　Mark。　So　foolish；　because　we　could　each　have　gone　our　own　separate　ways　and　now　it　is　too　late。'
　　
　　'No；'　the　newer　stepped　forward；　gripped　the　tiny　crucifix　in　the　pocket　of　his　jacket　and　wondered　if　it　would　be　powerful　enough。　'There　is　not　room　enough　for　the　two　of　us　in　this　world；　Quentin　。。。'
　　
　　His　voice　tailed　off　and　he　stared　in　disbelief；　saw　the　graves；　the　soil　thrown　up　in　a　heap；　their　contents　dragged　from　the　open　cavities。　Oh；　Jesus　God！　Culte　des　mortes；　as　it　was　known　in　Creole；　the　native　tongue　of　Haiti　…　the　cult　of　the　dead　。　。　。　necromancy！　He　found　himself　stepping　back　in　sheer　revulsion。　Another　tortured　flash　of　memory；　a　visit　some　years　ago　to　Port　au　Prince　where　he　had　experienced　at　first　hand　some