hatred.
Halloran was surprised that the man was still conscious. He glanced over at Cora, who was frowning, at last some sensibility returning to her gaze.
'Do you see him, Monk?' Kline's voice was all the more insidious for its guttural roughness. 'He did this to you, made you nothing. How you'd like to kill him. But no, my friend, that's impossible for you now.
But I have a use for you.' Fear replaced the hate in the bodyguard's eyes as they darted towards Kline.
'Another injection, Asil,' Kline told the Arab. 'I don't want the pain to kill him. The cutting will do that.'
The Arab ghosted away.
'The correct dosage is important,' said Kline, touching his skinless hands to Monk's body. 'Enough so that he doesn't feel the shock of the blade, but not enough to allow dreams to take him from us.
Fortunately Asil has become something of a specialist over the years.' Anger surged in Halloran, but he held it in check, biding his time. 'You turned Cora into an addict,' he said.
'Oh no, not an addict, not in the true sense. Not yet. She'd be useless to me if she were. I told you, Asil is expert in such matters. Cora is dependent on me, not on any drug.' The Arab had returned to Kline's side, in his hand a syringe filled with liquid. He smoothed away hair on Monk's arm and pierced a vein with the needle. He emptied half of the liquid into the bodyguard.
Within moments, the bodyguard's eyes took on a dull glaze and the corners of his mouth flickered.
'What are you going to do with him?' Halloran asked sharply.
Kline drew in a long, gravelly breath and gripped the stone to support himself. Still he managed to grin at Halloran, his peeled lips blood red against the yellow decay of his teeth. 'I'm going to feed off him,' he replied simply.
In a night of gross horrors, when nightmares were living, Halloran was further repulsed.
Although delighted with the obvious discomfort his words had caused the operative, Kline shook his head. 'Not his flesh, Palusinski can fill himself with that afterwards. I need something more, Halloran, something that has no substance, no materiality. The part of him that will be set free at his moment of death.' A luminescence glittered in the darkness of Kline's eyes. 'The ethereal energy that's the source of our existence. The psyche, Halloran, the soul. Can you understand that?' Again Halloran felt a loosening of the pressure around his neck. Daoud's concentration was wavering. 'If I understood, I'd be crazy like you,' the operative replied.
Kline straightened, his look fixed on the operative. The bodyguard lying on the stone between them moaned, either with pleasure or trepidation, the emotion was not clear.
'You're still a mystery to me,' Kline said to the operative. 'My psychic faculties are dimmed where you're concerned. Why is that, Halloran? What is it about you . . . ?” 'I'm just a hired bodyguard, nothing more than that.' Kline's stare did not shift. 'But you're a danger to me.'
'No, I'm here to prevent any harm coming to you.' Halloran tensed the muscles of his arms, preparing himself to strike, concentrating his strength. 'Tell me, Kline, tell me what this is all about.'
'I've already explained.'
'I'd like to know more. How can you . . . ?' He couldn't find the words; it felt too ridiculous to try.
'Tap into someone's soul?' the psychic finished for him. 'Absorb its vitality?' He laughed, a choking in his throat. 'The secret was left for me.' His eyes closed, the lids hideously raw, but his smile was rapturous. 'I learned from the ancient cuneiform writings of the Master himself. They were hidden away with his remains, spread around him to give sustenance during his long wait. He drew me to them, so many years ago. a time of Ignorance for me, when I was a shell waiting to be filled. I found his works in a chamber, a sepulchre beneath the Royal Cemetery of Ur, and piece by piece I smuggled them out, and piece by piece I had them deciphered so that no one else would understand their full message. Only then did I assemble them once more, when I knew the power contained within their symbols. They told of how potent were the powers of the mind, how they could be developed, channelled . . . how they could create!' He swayed, his eyes remaining closed. Khayed reached out as if to steady him, but seemed afraid to touch.
Kline's voice became deeper in tone. 'They taught the delights of perversity, the superiority that comes from corruption. I learned, you see, learned well, became an avid student. They instructed me in the ways of terror, they showed me how to seek out the evil in others and use it for my own ends. They revealed how I could escape the degenerating process, the wearing away of flesh and muscle, the shrivelling of body and mind, how the decay could be transposed to others. They spoke of the secret link between the mind and the earth's own energy, how they could be coupled, and used together. And I feasted upon the knowledge!' Kline's eyes sprung open, and the blackness in them almost filled the sockets.
'The price of it all was easy to pay,' he whispered. 'Dissension, wherever it could be spread. Atrocity, wherever it could be encouraged. Malevolence, wherever it could be nurtured. I learned to disperse my disruption, took it to many countries and let it fester. Because that was his way, and I am his disciple!'
Kline's hands were raised to his chests palms upwards, fingers curled into claws. He shuddered, a movement that threatened his collapse. But he righted himself, his mouth open in an agitated grin.
'There was another part to this bargain.' Now he was stooping, twisting into himself. 'An alliance between us. I was to keep Bel-Marduk forever with me, to sustain his bodily self, to keep it living.' A shiver ran through Halloran. There was nothing here of the Kline that he knew. The thing before him was unrecognisable in voice and body. Halloran felt weakened.
'You'll see,' said the form opposite. 'You'll understand how we breathe together.' Kline moved away, tottering as if about to fall. Yet still the Arab by his side was reluctant to take hold of him. Kline walked awkwardly to an alcove behind the altar, and the others watched, all of them motionless.
He entered the shadows.
Halloran heard something being opened.
Shuffling footsteps.
Kline returning, carrying something clutched to his chest, into the candle-light . . .
45 NETHERWORLD RISING
Away from the bubbling lake they ran, throats roughened by harsh breaths, disarray in their stride. Two of their companions had been lost to the lightning-seared cauldron, and these remaining three had no intention of joining them; clumsy their flight may have been, pounding rain rendering earth and grass slippery beneath their feet, but their progress was determined, panic lending its own pace.
Despite himself, a terrible fascination tempted Danny Shay to look back over his shoulder and he uttered a single alarmed cry at what he saw; he stumbled, went down, the man at his heels sprawling over him so that they both rolled in the soaked grass, kicking out at each other.
Shay sat up, rain streaming into his open mouth, while the other man, Flynn, beat at the earth in pain.
McGuire realised he was alone and stopped, searching behind for the others.
'Glory God . . .' he moaned when he saw the lake.
Shay scrambled to his knees and Flynn reached out to grasp his shoulder. 'I've done me ankle, Danny'
he shouted over the downpour. 'Give us a hand up!' But Shay stayed motionless, staring into the rain.
Flynn followed his gaze and collapsed back into the grass.
A shining came from beneath the water's boiling surface, a milky greenness that spread to the shoreline.
A curling mist rose from it, turning in on itself like vapour reaching cooler air. Geysers popped and spouted, foamy liquid showering down to create ripples, more turmoil. But something else was disturbing the broad lake's centre. A great mass, hindered by its own weight, was slowly emerging like some huge sunken wreck pushed to the surface by an eruption on the sea bed.
This was nothing manmade, though. It might have been regurgitation of a long-lost island, the waters finally relinquishing their claim. Except it was a living, pulsating thing. A mass that swelled and writhed, a gathering in oozing mud of all those nebulous creatures the men had glimpsed earlier beneath the lake's unsettled ceiling, the forms clinging together as if congealed. Pieces—living things—dropped away as this ill-shaped mountain grew; lake-water drained off to fall with the rain. Monsters of immense size were among that curling, viscous mass, while leaner shapes wriggled and clung like parasites, the ascending heap never still, constantly bulging and quivering as
