Heathen/Nemesis

and Dashwood, who stood defiantly facing her.

Donna’s breath came in gasps as she looked from one man to the other.

The floor was awash with blood from the dead man and woman and from Parsons.

The Grimoire lay in the centre of the floor.

A prize.

The trophy in a game of death.

No one moved.

The retorts of the guns still filled their ears, the muzzte-flashes still flamed in their eyes. But the room was all but silent.

Donna could see that Ryker’s .45 was lying within two or three feet of him. She saw his eyes dart to one side.

He moved very slightly towards the weapon, still holding his shoulder. Blood was pumping through his fingers; every movement clearly brought him fresh agony, as the two pieces of his shattered clavicle grated together.

Nevertheless, if he could just reach the gun ...

Donna shot him three times.

His body jerked as each bullet thudded into him, then he slid to one side and lay still, his chest and face covered in blood. It looked as if someone had upended him and dipped him in the crimson fluid.

Donna aimed the pistol at Dashwood.

Julie was crying softly now. Her hearing all but gone, her eyes stinging from the smoke, she could only watch helplessly as Donna and Dashwood faced each other.

He was smiling.

Ninety-One

‘You should have been dead by now,’ Dashwood told her. ‘Both of you.’

Donna kept her eyes fixed on him and the automatic aimed at his head.

‘What did you hope to gain by this little show?’ The words were heavy with scorn. ‘You think what’s happened here tonight will make any difference? Do you think you can stop us? Your husband thought the same thing, and he ended up joining us.’

‘No,’ said Donna, shaking her head.

‘Why do you find it so hard to believe?’ Dashwood asked. ‘Did you know so little about him? Or were you too stupid?’ He glared at her. ‘He knew this place well enough. And our other meeting houses. He wanted our knowledge and he found it. He paid the price to be one of us. He abandoned all he believed in, all his morals, all his ethics. He had nothing left but us.’

‘It’s not true,’ Donna said tearfully.

‘He knew a woman called Suzanne Regan,’ Dashwood said flatly, as if he were telling her something she didn’t already know.

The surprise registered on her face and Dashwood saw it.

‘True?’ he continued.

She nodded.

‘Do you know what she was? She was what this woman was to have been.’ He nodded towards the corpse of the naked female at Donna’s feet. ‘She was a carrier. She had been for a number of our other members. And she was for your husband.’ Dashwood held Donna’s gaze. ‘You said you had read the initiation rites. You knew of the fornication, the offering of a child, the need to keep that child’s skull. Suzanne Regan carried a child for your husband. A child he then killed.’

Donna’s body stiffened. She felt an icy coldness envelope her, as if she’d been wrapped in a freezing blanket.

‘He knew he had to sacrifice a child as an offering to us,’ Dashwood told her. ‘He made Suzanne Regan pregnant. She knew what would happen to the baby, but it didn’t bother her. She handed it over willingly, so your husband could kill it. He killed it in front of us, just as he had copulated with Suzanne Regan as we watched. He cut the child’s head from its shoulders as we watched.’ Dashwood shrugged. ‘We welcomed him into our ranks and then he betrayed us. He stole the Grimoire and threatened to expose us, as I told you. He knew too much about us.’

‘You’re lying,’ Donna said, wishing she could inject more conviction into her voice. She had lowered the gun slightly.

‘You traced us, you learned about us. You know that every member of The Sons of Midnight entered his name in the Grimoire. Your husband’s name is there. Look at it.’

He motioned towards the book.

Kill him.

‘Go on, look,’ he urged.

Kill him and destroy the book.

She had to know.

Donna moved towards the Grimoire and flipped it open. There were hundreds of names there, some faded from the passing of time.

‘The last name,’ Dashwood told her.

She turned a couple of pages and looked at the list.

‘Oh God,’ she whispered. She felt the freezing blanket being drawn tighter.

On the parchment-like paper she saw her husband’s name, recognized his handwriting.

Donna took hold of the page and tore it out.

Dashwood shouted in pain, his teeth gritted, as he looked at the ripped-out page.

Donna folded it and pushed it into the back pocket of her jeans.

She tore out another page.

‘No,’ shouted Dashwood. A deep gash appeared above his left eyebrow, as if slashed by an invisible blade.

He lunged at Donna, trying to get hold of the book.

‘Leave it, you bitch,’ he roared.

She hurled the book away and fired at it, putting two bullets into the ancient tome.

To her surprise and horror, blood exploded from the book.

Dashwood screamed and clapped hands to his chest.

Blood was jetting from two wounds there.

Donna fired more shots into the book.

Pieces of it flew into the air, propelled by the dark blood pumping from it.

Dashwood dropped to his knees, holes appearing in his leg and stomach.

More of the crimson fluid spilled over his lips. He turned to face Donna.

‘You know the truth now,’ he grimaced, teeth clenched, bloodied. ‘Search your house. The cellar.’ His eyes blazed. ‘He was one of us,’ he roared.

Donna shot him in the face as he knelt in front of her.

He raised his hands towards her and she saw the skin beginning to yellow, to peel away from his fingertips. A nail came free, pus and blood spewing from the digit. Huge pieces of flesh began to curl away from his cheeks, leaving the network of muscles beneath exposed. One eye burst in its socket. Dark fluid began to run from both his nostrils and suddenly the room was filled with an overpowering stench of decay, a nauseating odour that made the two women feel sick.

Dashwood clapped his hands to his face and pulled them away dripping. Flesh was liquefying on his bones, the bones themselves crumbling.

In a corner of the room the Grimoire was dissolving into a seething puddle of reeking muck, a gelatinous mess that looked like the contents of a huge, freshly milked boil.