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as she appeared to struggle for breath, arms wind-milling wildly.
Sabat's gaze switched to the man lying beneath her. He was big, only his
height preventing him from being excessively fat. Even so, surplus flesh
bulged and rippled as Miranda pressed down on him. Perspiration glistened on
his high brow and a receding hairline was thinning a path that would
eventually result in a bald crown. Small, close-set eyes flickered open from
time to time and the thin, bloodless lips were pursed as he, too, delighted in
this encounter.
Strangely, Sabat felt no sense of arousement; he rarely did on the astral
where one became a detached spectator to the actions of mortal bodies. Totally
invisible, he had no fear of being detected as he stepped into the room.
Miranda and her lover were convulsing wildly, their united quivering bodies
causing the frail modern bed to creak alarmingly and the lamp to vibrate on
the bedside table. Those earlier groans and gasps had escalated to cries of
delight and then Miranda was sinking down on to her partner, rubbing her
breasts across his hairy torso so that the sharp nipples spiked him.
For some time after that they lay still and Sabat feared that they had fallen
asleep and might remain so until morning, in which case his night would have
been wasted for it was only safe to remain away from his physical body for a
few hours each time.
However, after perhaps twenty minutes the man stirred, used his strength to
extricate himself from the sensual embrace of his partner. Til have to be
going,' he muttered.
'Or your wife'll be getting suspicious,' there was a hint of jealousy in
Miranda's reply.
'I have work to do.' The other groped for his shirt which was lying close by
on the floor. The others are getting impatient. We haven't met for over a
month now. It has been too dangerous and now that they've found Sheila
Dowson's body there's going to be cops snooping round the village for weeks to
come.'
'But we didn't kill her. She just. . . had a cerebral attack or something.'
'Cerebral attack!' he laughed mirthlessly, the shirt being pulled over his
head hiding the expression bordering on terror in his eyes. 'No cerebral
attack can pound the skull like . . . like an animal's kicked it in! You know
yourself what happened that night and what it did to Horace.'
'I wasn't looking.' Her hitherto flushed features had gone deathly pale now.
'I kept my face buried in the grass and my eyes shut tight and prayed it
wouldn't happen to me. When d'you think Horace will be coming out of the
nuthouse?'
'Not for a long time. If ever.' The big man was sitting on the side of the bed
now, struggling to pull his trousers on. The last I heard he thought he was
Prime Minister and was ordering the doctors to set him free, accusing them of
having brought his government down by an armed coup. I guess I'll have to take
over from now onwards.'
'Why... why don't we just forget about it all, Royston?' Miranda's voice
quavered. 'We . . . don't have to meet again ... or anything ... do we?'
'Don't be a stupid little bitch!' His features contorted and she flinched as
though he might hit her. 'We've
gone too far to back out; there's no turning back once you've trodden the Left
Hand Path, you should know that. We are the disciples of the Master and if we
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attempt to desert him he will strike us down in the same way the Dowson girl
was struck down. But now we have the ultimate in power, the bones of
Gardiner himself who was one of the most powerful, if the least known, of all
black magicians, The
Master will look after us if we serve him well, never fear.'
'Well, he didn't exactly look after Horace.' The girl was trembling violently.
'Or . . . or Sheila Dowson.'
'He works in his own mysterious way. Horace achieved what Crowley achieved
many years ago except that Horace lost his courage at the crucial moment; he
would have gone blabbing to the police. The
Master knew this and silenced him. Possibly he would have struck him dead had
Horace not had a record of devotion to the Left Hand Path. That was an example
of the Master's forbearance towards a disciple. Now it is up to us to carry on
his work. The most difficult part is accomplished.'
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