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in； frustration and pleasure torturing him with unbelievable ferocity； a sprinter seeing the finishing tape ahead of him； exerting every muscle； total mental and physical mitment yet it eluded him like some marshland jack…o'…lantern。 No longer could he contain the cries； the shouted obscenities； Catriona Lealan returning to torture him； mocking him。 They all came and went； jeering him because he could not reach them； his body writhing and convulsing but still he was not satisfied。 Faster and faster； his quivering flesh shiny with sweat。 Falling； thudding on to the carpeted floor and scarcely noticing； verging on hysteria。 Now he could see himself in the mirror again； Sabat a slave unto himself； a blurred pathetic thing with Quentin's cries ringing in his ears。 Faster； faster。 And still faster。
At last he made it； a volcanic eruption within himself； molten lava shooting forth； his writhings growing weaker and weaker。 And weaker。 Finally he was lying still； Quentin's voice no longer to be heard； just the roaring of his own pounding blood； the wheezing of his lungs as he gulped for air； physically and mentally shattered。
God； the bastard had hit him hard this time； so unexpected； awaiting the opportunity after months of absence from his thoughts。 The room was dark except for the glow of a distant streetlamp； an ethereal light that enabled him to see again the outline of his own reflection in that mirror。 A man； broken mentally and physically； easy prey for those from beyond the shadows should they e to take him。
Sabat closed his eyes； began the fight back。 First he had to control his breathing； try and bring it back to normal。 Fighting to reason； this had been no ordinary session of masturbation。 Torture as opposed to pleasure； vile fantasies mocking him； highlighting that teenage homosexual experience which had driven him to seek refuge in the Church。 The ultimate in degradation。 Vigorously he had defiled himself； done what they had wanted him to do。 They knew why he was here and had sent Quentin。 A warning？
Sabat fought against panic。 Gradually his breathing returned to normal and he sat up。 Christ； he was weak； and so cold； the sweat having chilled on his body。 He shivered； managed to stand and fought off the dizziness。 Somehow he made it across the room and found the light switch； shielding his eyes from the blinding glare。
His condition was temporarily akin to the after…effects of pneumonia； reminding him how they had got to him the last time； how he had joined forces with those eaters of human flesh。* It was happening all over again。
He staggered out across the landing and into the bathroom； vomiting violently into the bowl。 His head began to ache； a spreading pain behind the eyes which could be the forerunner of a blinding migraine。 Quentin had taken him unawares； given him no time to fight back。 They might e for him at any moment。 。 。 。
He began to run the bath； closing his eyes in an attempt to shut out the light； the billowing steam warming his shivering body。 He needed sleep； badly； but it would be dangerous； and he did not have the strength to set up the necessary precautions。 Holding on to the sides of the bath； wondering if he was going to faint。 If he did； then tomorrow his dead body would be found lying on the floor of this bathroom； for surely the powers of darkness would not spurn an opportunity to take their revenge on a totally defenceless enemy of Sabat's calibre。
Gratefully he slid into the warm water； lying full length； still trying to fight。 Quentin was silent and that was what worried him most。 Was there no further need for taunting？ Was he so defenceless that they could e for him any time they chose？
He fought against the desire to sleep。 The warm water would refresh him； revitalise him； help him to prepare himself mentally for the night which lay ahead。 He took a deep breath； let it out slowly。 Every second was vital to him； every minute he grew stronger。 Why had they not e for him when they had the chance？
Suddenly a shrill noise had his brain reverberating； had him jerking his eyes open and gasping aloud his despair。 His worst fears were realised。 Somebody was ringing the front doorbell！
CHAPTER FOUR
FOR ONCE in his life Mark Sabat was overe with indecisiveness。 And fear！ This was the way they would e； not demons in the night but in the guise of a mortal caller； a ploy to deceive him yet again。
He lay there in the bath； suddenly realising how the water had cooled； how the atmospheric temperature itself had dropped。 He could hear the beating of his own heart； the pounding of his pulses in the silence。 He closed his eyes briefly； suddenly realised that his headache had subsided。 The breathing exercise again； ten in； ten out； an athlete bringing mind and body under control； an SAS mando preparing for action。
Still silence。 Perhaps it was a casual caller thinking that the Reverend Owen still lived here； and would go away。 Then the bell rang again； louder； more shrill； more persistent！
Sabat got up out of the bath with the speed and ease of a surfacing sealion； suddenly lithe and strong again； scarcely slopping a drop of water as he stepped out on to the mat and in the same supple movement reached for a towel off the rail and began to dry himself。 Ten seconds later he was padding back to the bedroom； dressing with speed； checking that the …38 still rested in the pocket holster in his corduroy jacket。 Only when he was fully clad did he pause； reflecting for a moment as he allowed his gaze to rest on the black crocodile…skin briefcase at the foot of the bed。 Inside it lay the weapons to repel an attack such as might be expected from the forces of darkness。 But there was no time to set them up； to use them now。
The bell rang again； the caller was being impatient。 Well； Sabat wouldn't keep him waiting much longer！
He slid the ？38 out of its holster； held it easily in his hand； well aware of his own speed and accuracy when it came to marksmanship。 He would be in his element in a gunfight but it would not be anything as simple as that。 He did not know what he was up against； what enemy they had sent in Quentin's wake。
Moving as silently as a wraith； Sabat descended the stairs with scarcely a creaking board。 The hallway was in darkness but by the glow of that same single streetlamp which had lit his bedroom he saw a figure silhouetted against the opaque glass panel of the front door。 A man； his features indistinguishable； short and stocky； a hand going up to the bellpush yet again。
Ringing frantically now； determined that his call should be answered。 Sabat flattened himself against the wall； began to move towards the door； the barrel of his revolver trained unwaveringly on that silhouette outside。 Now he was only a yard from the other； a mere pane of glass separating them； the caller outside totally unaware of his presence。 Yet he knew that Sabat was in the house otherwise he would have gone away before now。
Sabat made up his mind and moved with the speed of a swooping sparrowhawk； his free hand d